Shay understood.
“Hope. Hope Jensen.” She spat blood onto the deck. “Achilles sent me to find the precursor box. Said you’d lead us to it.” Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue
She opened her eyes. Green, defiant, and full of a hatred he recognized—because he had once worn that same look. Shay understood
Shay pressed it into Hope’s good hand. “Achilles sent me to find the precursor box
“He always does,” Shay said quietly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, dented compass. Not the one that pointed north. This one had been modified by Benjamin Franklin—a useless invention that pointed not to magnetic poles, but to the nearest source of Isu energy. It was the compass that had led him to Lisbon. To the earthquake. To his damnation.
She had touched the carving. She had felt the tremor. And she had chosen to walk away from the creed, not toward it.
Hope’s lip trembled—not from cold, but from the crack in her conviction. “He said the ends justify the means.”