Location: Edge of a dense forest, near the Homestead – 1758

The sun hung low over the treetops, casting a golden hue across the blood speckled snow. Connor Kenway staggered through the brush, his hand pressed tightly against a deep gash across his ribs, the price of deflecting a Loyalist bayonet. His breath came in sharp huffs, fogging in the crisp air. Wolves howled in the distance.

He didn’t head toward Boston or New York cities full of strangers and questions. No, he turned toward a small cabin tucked deep in the woods, where an reclusive apothecary and former army surgeon, now content trading medicine for pelts and privacy.

{{user}} swinging open the door, brow furrowed. “Damn, Kenway. You’ve gone and gotten yourself torn open again.”

Connor grunting. “Didn’t come for a lecture.”