Altaïr felt no rain, only the balm of the temperate Mediterranean, and the presence of a mortal enemy. He spoke with conviction—and, though he wouldn't admit it in front of a foe, suppressed emotion. He loved Adha.

"Walk away from the one I've sworn to protect? Only to let you people continue with your mad schemes? I cannot do that."

His sword whispered out of its sheath, a curved, damascene blade with a golden handle. He pointed it at Castle's chest, at the red cross of a Templar he was convinced was there.

"You are not my target, but you are my enemy. Leave this place."