MEMORY START

I. The Edge of Revolution

Paris bleeds.
It has for years now — though the world calls it liberty.

From the windows of the Café Théâtre, I can see the tricolor banners whipping in the wind, the square below crowded with citizens who have traded their chains for pitchforks. The Revolution is alive, yes — but it devours its children faster than any king.

I once thought I fought for the people. For justice. For France.
Now I wonder if I fight only to atone.

Élise would laugh at that — call it sentiment. But tonight, she is gone again, chasing her own ghosts among the Templars who remain.

And I am left with only the whisper of steel and a question that gnaws like hunger.

What makes a weapon?

Is it the blade itself? The hand that wields it?
Or the idea that drives the strike?

The Brotherhood has taught me how to kill.
The Revolution has taught me why.
But neither has taught me when to stop.

II. The Mission

It was Mirabeau’s successor who summoned me — Pierre Bellec’s old acquaintance, a senior Assassin known only as Lefèvre. He had the gray eyes of a man who has seen too much truth and still doubts it.

“Arno,” he said, unrolling a map across the table. “We’ve lost three couriers this week. Someone is intercepting our messages before they reach the southern cells.”

“Templars?” I asked.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone worse — opportunists with no creed at all. The Revolution has bred as many predators as heroes.”

He tapped the map near Les Invalides. “We’ve traced the thefts to a blacksmith’s foundry here. The man’s name is Étienne LaForge. He supplies weapons to both sides — king and committee alike. But we believe his true loyalty lies with a faction calling themselves Les Purificateurs.”

“I’ve heard the name,” I said. “Fanatics. Claim the Revolution must cleanse France of all secrecy — including the Assassins.”

“Precisely. They seek to forge a weapon — not of steel, but of symbol. Something to strike fear into both factions and begin a new war entirely.”

He looked at me, the weight of it visible in his eyes. “Find out what LaForge is building. Stop him before the city burns again.”

III. Shadows in the Smoke

The foundry stood near the river, its chimneys coughing black clouds into the bruised sky. Night had settled like ash upon the city; the air was thick with soot and the iron tang of heat.

I moved across the rooftops, unseen but ever-seeing. Below, men hauled crates stamped with the fleur-de-lis — relics of the monarchy repurposed for revolution. Firelight painted their faces in the glow of hell.

Through a cracked skylight, I saw LaForge himself — tall, broad-shouldered, his arms glistening with sweat and soot. Around him, sparks cascaded like stars dying. Upon his workbench lay not swords or muskets, but a strange mechanism — clockwork gears, copper tubing, a reservoir that pulsed faintly with blue light.

Something hummed inside it. Not steam. Not fire. Something older.

When I dropped silently behind him, the sound of steel drew his attention too late.

“Step away,” I said.

He froze, hands raised, a grin breaking beneath his soot-streaked beard. “You’re too late, mon ami. The weapon is already awake.”

I moved closer, my hidden blade poised. “What is it?”

He laughed. “A message. To your kind — and theirs.”

Then he slammed his hand on a lever.

The machine roared. Light burst from the reservoir, searing white, and I felt a pulse like thunder pass through my chest. The air vibrated with memory. For an instant, I saw visions — not of this world: a figure cloaked in light, an orb of gold, a voice whispering across centuries.

Then darkness.

IV. The First Civilization’s Ghost

When I awoke, the foundry was silent. The machine had stopped, its copper veins now cold. LaForge was gone.

But the light — that impossible, living light — remained burned behind my eyes. I knew its shape, its resonance. I had felt it before.

The Apple.

But this was something smaller, perhaps a shard — a fragment of the Isu’s forgotten craft. Whatever it was, LaForge had harnessed it.

And if he succeeded, Paris would see a new kind of weapon — one that could turn faith itself into fire.

I retrieved the fragment, sealing it within my satchel, and vanished into the smoke.

V. Echoes of Élise

I found her two nights later, in the Ruins of the Bastille, where ghosts of the old regime lingered like stubborn stains. She stood amid the rubble, red hair catching the moonlight, sword drawn — beautiful, defiant, dangerous as ever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said without turning.

“That’s usually my line,” I replied.

She sighed. “You’ve been playing with toys again, haven’t you?”

I told her what I had seen — the foundry, the machine, the light that felt like memory. Her expression softened, then hardened again.

“Arno, you can’t keep chasing ghosts of the First Civilization. Every relic we touch seems to make things worse.”

“And yet your Templar brothers would kill to possess it.”

“Because they see weapons where you see salvation. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Her words struck deeper than she knew.

“You sound like Bellec,” I said quietly.

“And you sound like a man still trying to prove he’s not a monster.”

I turned away, hiding the hurt with humor. “If I am, I’ve chosen a fine city for it.”

She smiled — faintly, sadly. “We’re all monsters here, Arno. The Revolution just gives us better excuses.”

VI. The Purifiers

The Brotherhood’s network traced LaForge to a chapel outside Montmartre, long abandoned since the riots. The Purifiers had claimed it, baptizing their zeal in fire.

When I reached it, torches burned in iron sconces along the nave, casting long shadows that seemed almost alive. Figures knelt before the altar, chanting. In their center, LaForge stood, his arms raised. The fragment glowed before him, suspended by wires, feeding light into a weapon unlike any I had seen — part musket, part relic, part blasphemy.

A voice rang out — his voice:

“The old gods made fire to rule mankind. We make fire to free it! The Assassins hide truth in shadows. The Templars chain it with order. But we— we will wield it as weapon divine!”

The congregation roared approval.

I moved through the rafters, unseen. But something inside me hesitated. Their fervor was familiar — terrifyingly so. It reminded me of the crowd that once cheered as heads rolled into baskets, calling it justice.

Perhaps the line between weapon and faith was thinner than I’d thought.

Then LaForge raised the device, aiming its glowing barrel toward the city skyline visible through the broken stained glass.

I dropped.

VII. The Battle in the Chapel

Steel met steel. Chaos erupted. The Purifiers drew their blades, some firing muskets wildly, their zeal making them fearless but clumsy.

LaForge fired the weapon once — a bolt of blue light that shattered stone and silence alike. The sound was not of gunpowder, but of memory — the cry of something ancient forced awake.

I closed the distance, striking fast. Sparks flew as his hammer fell against my blade.

“You don’t understand,” he shouted. “This power— it will cleanse the world!”

“The world has been cleansed enough,” I snarled, driving my shoulder into his chest.

The weapon skittered across the floor, humming, pulsing. I dove, snatched it up — and felt it thrumming like a heartbeat against my palm.

A whisper echoed within my mind, not human, not sane.

Use me.

I saw flashes — armies kneeling, towers crumbling, a thousand futures burning beneath the touch of one hand.

Use me, and end their wars forever.

For an instant, I believed.

Then I remembered Élise’s voice: Don’t make the same mistake.

With a cry, I hurled the device against the wall. It shattered, light erupting outward — and then fading into nothing.

LaForge screamed, lunged, but my blade found his throat before he reached me. He fell, clutching at the blood that would not stay.

The chant had stopped. The Purifiers fled into the dark, their faith broken.

Only silence remained.

VIII. The Question of Power

I brought the remnants of the weapon to Lefèvre. He studied them by candlelight, the glow reflecting in his weary eyes.

“A marvel of craft — and madness,” he murmured. “Whatever energy he harnessed, it’s beyond our knowledge. Perhaps beyond our right to know.”

“Then destroy it,” I said.

“And if it could help us? Heal instead of harm?”

I shook my head. “We’ve used that excuse before.”

He looked up, sadness etched deep. “You sound like Mirabeau.”

“He died believing men could be better than their weapons.”

Lefèvre smiled faintly. “And do you?”

I had no answer.

IX. The Weapon Within

Paris slept uneasily that night, its streets veiled in fog and whispers. I walked alone through the Marais, my hood drawn, my thoughts heavier than my steps.

Every man I had killed, every blade I had drawn — all for what? Liberty? Redemption? Love?

Each cause had become another weapon.

The Brotherhood says we fight for peace. But peace built on blood is just another empire waiting to fall.

Maybe Élise was right. Maybe we are all monsters here — armed with creeds, excuses, and the conviction that our pain is purpose.

I stopped before a mirror shop, its window cracked. My reflection looked back — cloaked, weary, eyes hollow.

Not a hero.
Not a villain.
A weapon, forged by grief and tempered by guilt.

X. The Meeting at Dawn

Élise found me at dawn, as she always does when I least expect it. The sun bled across the Seine like spilled wine.

“You destroyed it,” she said simply.

“I had to.”

She nodded. “You’re learning.”

“To hesitate?”

“To choose.”

We stood there, silent, as bells tolled from Notre Dame — their sound weary, like the city itself.

“You know,” she said, “the Templars once believed the same thing you do. That men couldn’t be trusted with power. So they tried to control it.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I believe power must belong to those who dare to use it — and pay its price.”

“Then perhaps we are both wrong.”

She smiled. “Or perhaps we are both right, and that’s why the world hates us.”

Her hand brushed mine, fleeting, uncertain. “Goodbye, Arno.”

“Until next time,” I said.

“There won’t be one.”

But there always is.

XI. The True Weapon

Weeks later, as the Revolution reached its fever pitch — Robespierre’s fall, the terror turning inward — I watched the guillotines rise higher and the crowds cheer louder.

And I realized something terrible.

The greatest weapon is not the sword.
Not the gun.
Not even the relics of those who came before.

It is belief.

Belief turns men into blades sharper than steel. Belief builds Empires, topples Kings, ignites revolutions.

And belief, once kindled, never dies — it only changes hands.

The Brotherhood, the Templars, the Purifiers — we are all smiths, forging the same fire into different shapes.

Perhaps someday, someone will wield it wisely.

But not today.

XII. Epilogue: Memory of Steel

Years later, when Paris sleeps beneath the soot of peace, I sometimes visit the old foundry. Its fires are long cold, its walls draped in ivy. The city has forgotten Étienne LaForge, forgotten his dream of divine weapons.

But I remember.

I draw my hidden blade and study its reflection in the moonlight.
A simple tool. Elegant. Efficient. Merciful, when wielded well.

And I think of all it has done.

A blade is not good or evil.
A weapon is not born of iron — but of intent.

The Revolution taught me that every idea cuts.
The Creed taught me to choose where.

So I remain here — not as hero, not as martyr — but as a reminder that even the sharpest weapon is useless without a cause worth bleeding for.

Requiescat in pace.

MEMORY END