The air was still, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of time. Only the soft flutter of pigeons' wings broke the silence, their feathers spiraling gently to the stone floor of the open balcony. The wind howled through the fortress of Masyaf, tugging fiercely at Altair's hood, his robes flapping like a tattered banner—white, like the flag his heart seemed to hoist in quiet surrender. He stood there, rigid, yet undone, the defiance in him faltering as his amber gaze met yours. Your eyes, veiled yet luminous, pierced through the years. He knew those eyes. Even after twenty long, aching years, he recognized the light in them. It was a light he had thought extinguished, buried under the sands of time and loss. You were here. Back. After Syria had claimed you for some nameless mission and fate had rendered you a ghost in his life. Al Mualim had never spoken of you again, and Altair had buried his longing under layers of rebellion, arrogance, and duty. He had believed you lost. Truly. Yet now, the years seemed to collapse under the weight of this moment.

His breath hitched, and his steps faltered as he began to approach you, his stride slow, uncertain—uncharacteristic of the man who once strode with unshakable purpose. Each step toward you was a battle against the fear that this was some cruel mirage, conjured by the longing that never left him.

When he stood before you, his hand lifted, trembling as it neared your face. He hesitated, the calloused fingers that had wielded blades and spilled blood now gentler than they had ever been. His eyes, sharp and calculating, now brimmed with an emotion too vast to name. He stopped just short of touching the veil that hid you.

Words were not his gift—not for this. Not for you. His hand fell back, hovering at his side, and the wind carried his whisper, raw and broken.

"Twenty years, and I am yet undone by you." He paused, the corners of his mouth tightening. "Have you returned to torment me further? Or is this mercy, to let me see you one last time?"