MEMORY START

I. The Weight of Dusk

There are nights in New Orleans when the air itself seems to hold its breath.
When the sky bruises purple over the river, and the streets fall into a hush — not of peace, but of anticipation. It is in such hours that I move, silent as thought, between worlds that cannot see each other.

The city above whispers of freedom — of elegance, civility, the masks of society.
The city below — the true one — speaks of chains and hunger, of men sold by the measure of their strength and women by the smoothness of their skin.

And I, Aveline de Grandpré, live between those shadows.

Tonight, I hunt a man who profits from both.

II. The Merchant of Shadows

His name is Étienne Rousseau, a merchant of coffee and sugar, newly arrived from Port-au-Prince. To the governor, he is a gentleman — generous in tax and loyal to crown. But to the slaves of Saint-Domingue, he is a thief of souls. Rumors say he has been transporting runaways under false promises of freedom, only to sell them into the Spanish colonies.

Freedom — twisted into bait.

I had seen his ships from the docks that morning, their hulls heavy with cargo too silent to be mere barrels. Rousseau was careful, but shadows leave trails where light refuses to go.

Through my mother’s contacts among the maroons, I learned he would attend a gathering that evening at the Maison de Lys, a ballroom frequented by the city’s elite. There, beneath crystal chandeliers and the perfume of false virtue, I would find him.

Not as Aveline the Assassin — but as Mademoiselle de Grandpré, the perfect shadow of respectability.

III. The Mask of Light

I entered the ballroom beneath a flood of violins. My gown shimmered in gold and white, my mask of lace concealing all but the eyes — a necessary irony. Those who looked upon me saw what they wished to see: a daughter of wealth, of mixed blood polished into palatable form.

No one saw the blade hidden in the fold of my fan, or the whisper of resolve behind my smile.

“Ah, Mademoiselle de Grandpré,” cooed a voice at my side. “How radiant you are this evening.”

It was Governor d’Abbadie, plump and sweating, a man who loved power as one loves wine — to excess and without reflection.

“Your flattery exceeds your eyesight, Monsieur,” I said with a practiced laugh. “You mistake the shimmer of the chandeliers for beauty.”

He chuckled, delighted by my wit, never seeing the contempt beneath it. As he prattled on about trade routes and tariffs, my eyes searched the room until they found Rousseau.

Tall. Smooth. Eyes like wet coin. He stood by the balcony, speaking to a man in the uniform of the Compagnie Française des Indes. A ledger lay open between them.

Numbers — always the language of slavery.

I excused myself from the governor’s company and drifted closer, my movements measured, my fan fluttering in rhythm with my heartbeat. Rousseau’s words floated through the din:

“The shipments will arrive by dawn. No names, only numbers. Shadows do not need names.”

He laughed softly.

Shadows.

I smiled behind my mask.
How poetic, that he would name himself my prey.

IV. The Gathering Storm

When the ball ended, Rousseau slipped into the courtyard, bidding farewell to his guests with the ease of one who believes himself untouchable. I followed at a distance, exchanging my gown for the shadows of the alley, my steps soundless upon the cobblestones.

The air smelled of salt and jasmine. Crickets sang their careless symphony. I waited until he turned toward the docks, his carriage waiting. Two guards flanked him — Frenchmen, armed and unaware.

I dropped from the balcony above, landing behind them with the silence of a cat.
A blade whispered; one man fell before he could cry out. The second turned, eyes wide — too late. I caught him, lowered him gently, and pressed on.

Rousseau sensed movement and turned, pistol raised.

“Who’s there?”

I stepped from the dark, hood drawn. “A shadow, monsieur.”

He fired. The shot went wide. My blade found his wrist before he could reload.

“The shadows remember those they swallow,” I said. “You have trafficked in lives. Where are they now?”

He spat blood, defiant. “You think you fight for them? You fight for ghosts. There will always be another ship, another buyer. You cannot stop the tide.”

“Perhaps not,” I said, driving my blade through his heart. “But I can drown you in it.”

He fell without ceremony. The bayou took him — another body for the river’s long memory.

V. Reflections in Water

I returned to the Bayou, where Agaté awaited — my mentor, my ghost of the Creed. The swamp was alive with sound: frogs croaking, wind in cypress, the eternal rhythm of nature unconcerned with the politics of men.

He stood near the water’s edge, his hood a silhouette against the moonlight.

“You walk with vengeance, child,” he said without turning. “You strike at men, not at the ideas that breed them.”

“Would you have me let them live?” I asked.

“I would have you understand them. Shadows do not exist without light. To destroy one, you must know the other.”

I frowned. “And yet, the light blinds those who look too long.”

He smiled faintly. “Then you are learning.”

We stood in silence. I could feel the bayou breathing around us — a living thing, eternal and indifferent. I had killed a man, yes. But had I changed anything?

Agaté seemed to hear the thought before I spoke it.

“You are both noble and slave-born,” he said. “You live in the in-between. The world sees you as a shadow — neither light nor dark. Use that. Become what they cannot comprehend.”

I nodded slowly. “A shadow can hide. A shadow can move unseen. A shadow can strike.”

“And a shadow,” he said, “can reveal the shape of what casts it.”

VI. The Ghost Ship

Days later, word reached me of a vessel moored beyond the delta — La Silhouette. A fitting name. The ship had arrived in secret, bearing “cargo” meant for Rousseau’s enterprise. His death had left the smugglers without leadership, but the cargo remained — dozens of chained men and women hidden below deck, bound for Cuba.

I could not let them vanish into the dark.

That night, I stole a canoe and glided through the reeds. The moon hung high, silvering the water. My reflection drifted beside me — a blur, half-real.

When I reached the ship, I climbed the anchor rope, pulling myself up hand over hand until the deck rose beneath me. Two sentries paced, muttering in Creole and French.

I was the shadow then — silent, invisible. My blade whispered.

Below deck, the air was thick with sweat and salt. Faces turned toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. I spoke softly:

“Be still. I am here to free you.”

Keys hung on the wall; I took them and began to unlock the chains. A woman, thin and scarred, grasped my hand.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A friend,” I said. “A shadow among shadows.”

We moved quickly, guiding them onto the deck, into waiting boats. One man — young, strong — hesitated.

“They will come for us again,” he said.

“Then we will vanish,” I replied. “Shadows always do.”

By dawn, La Silhouette burned behind us, its flames mirrored in the calm bayou waters. The freed souls paddled into mist and freedom, their laughter breaking the morning silence.

And yet, in that glow, I saw my own reflection — and wondered what part of me would ever truly be free.

VII. The Governor’s Shadow

Freedom, as I learned, casts its own shadow. Rousseau’s death had stirred questions among the elite. The governor whispered of assassins and rebellion. Patrols doubled. The city’s slaves faced harsher chains, for every act of defiance births another lash.

I could not act as Assassin now — not openly. To protect the city’s unseen, I would have to become what society already thought I was: a harmless lady, a creature of salons and gossip.

But beneath the silks, I would listen. And I would remember.

At one such gathering, I overheard the governor speaking with a familiar voice — Madeleine de L’Isle, my stepmother, poised and deadly. She had always moved between worlds as I did, but with opposite intent: I sought to free; she sought to rule.

“There is a darkness spreading,” Madeleine said. “Whispers of rebellion in the plantations. Someone fans their hope.”

“And you suspect…?” the governor asked.

“A woman,” she said. “One who walks in shadow.”

Her eyes met mine across the room.

VIII. Bloodline

Later, in her chambers, Madeleine poured wine — crimson and cold.

“You are restless, ma chère,” she said. “The world sees it, though you think it does not.”

“I do what I must,” I replied.

“And yet you waste yourself on causes that will devour you. The world is not kind to women who forget their station.”

I met her gaze. “I have no station, only a choice.”

She smiled. “Then choose wisely. Shadows are beautiful, Aveline — until the light moves, and they are gone.”

Her words lingered long after I left.

IX. The Philosophy of Shadows

That night, I returned to the rooftop above the docks, watching ships drift beneath the crescent moon. I thought of Rousseau, of the freed souls, of Madeleine’s warning.

Agaté’s voice echoed in memory: “To destroy the shadow, you must know the light.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the true war was not between freedom and tyranny, but between what men chose to see and what they chose to ignore.

I had lived my life as three selves — the lady, the slave, the Assassin. Each one a shadow of the other. Each one necessary.

But who was I beneath them all?

The answer came not as word, but as wind — the gentle touch of the bayou through my hair, the whisper of the Creed:

Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.

It was not permission to act without consequence.
It was a reminder that all we are — even our shadows — are choices.

X. Dawn

Weeks later, the rebellion began. On a plantation near Baton Rouge, slaves rose against their masters. The Templars responded with fire. I went to them — not as lady, not as slave, but as Assassin.

Through smoke and gunfire, I moved unseen, striking where I must, saving who I could. Among the chaos, I saw a girl — no older than I was when I first held a blade — lifting a fallen man from the ground.

Our eyes met. She saw my hood, my hidden blade, and instead of fear, she smiled.

“You’re the shadow,” she said.

And I realized then — a shadow may vanish, but the shape it casts remains.

XI. Legacy

When the smoke cleared, the rebellion was crushed, as all rebellions are at first. But its echo would not fade.

I returned to the bayou, weary but resolute. Agaté waited, as always, silent as the trees.

“You have walked far, Aveline,” he said.

“And still I walk,” I replied. “There are always more chains.”

He nodded. “And always more shadows to break them.”

I looked toward the sunrise. “Perhaps one day, there will be no need for shadows.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But until that day, be the shadow that protects the light.”

XII. Epilogue

Years later, I would remember that night in the ballroom — the laughter, the chandeliers, the masks. I would remember Rousseau’s final words, Madeleine’s warning, Agaté’s lessons.

All of them shadows, cast by the same sun.

And I would understand that the Assassin’s Creed is not about destruction or secrecy. It is about balance — the place between light and dark where truth can survive.

I have lived as many things — daughter, rebel, assassin. But above all, I have been the shadow of those who cannot be seen.

And in that, I have found my freedom.

Requiescat in pace.

MEMORY END