Nasim chose to stay with Arwa in Gibraltar. He was learning to speak again—first word, “Kenway.” Second, “Freedom.”
“The Observatory,” Ashworth gasped. “You’ll never… protect it forever.”
Edward’s reply was a cannonball through the window of Ashworth’s London townhouse, tied with a note: “I learned from the best chaos-bringers. They’re called mothers.”
But he knew now: north was not a direction. It was a promise.
He didn’t kill him. Instead, Arwa injected Ashworth with a slow poison that erased memory, not life. The banker woke three days later in a monastery in County Cork, believing himself a retired cheese merchant.
The wreck of the Sultana’s Mirror lay not far from the Aran Islands. But the sea had scattered her secrets. What Edward found instead was a survivor: a mute boy, no older than twelve, with olive skin and calloused hands, clutching a brass disc etched with constellations.