Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue Apr 2026

She opened her eyes. Green, defiant, and full of a hatred he recognized—because he had once worn that same look.

Shay felt the old sting. Assassins. His former family. His new prey.

He ordered the Morrigan closer. The wreck was a schooner, its mast snapped like a chicken bone, its hull bleeding splinters into the black water. On the forecastle, slumped against a barrel of salted fish, was a young woman in a tattered white hood. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her left arm was twisted at a wrong angle, and frost clung to her eyelashes. Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue

“You,” she whispered. “The traitor. Shay Cormac.”

“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 opened her eyes

“What is this?” she asked.

And somewhere in the frozen North, the ice cracked a little wider, waiting for the next fool who believed that history belonged to the righteous. Assassins

The North Atlantic, 1752. Three months since Shay Cormac turned his back on the Colonial Brotherhood. Three months since Lisbon shattered beneath his boots.

He never saw Hope Jensen again. But months later, a weathered compass arrived at a Templar safehouse in New York, wrapped in a torn piece of white fabric. No note. No explanation.