Assassin Creed Arno Dorian Mga Nobela at Kwento

Then he stepped inside as if the smell of death in this room was his favorite scent. “Tsk, tsk… what a mess,” Dorian clicked his tongue. He crouched beside the assassin’s corpse, then his dark violet eyes shifted toward me. “An assassin,” he murmured. “Who sent him?” Alaric demanded impatiently. Dorian shrugged, a gesture that said he didn’t know—and didn’t care. He stood up and placed the small leather bag hanging from his waist onto the table. Then he gestured with one finger for Alaric to bring me closer.

Behind him, ten warriors stand like statues, their uniforms neat, their expressions unreadable. Beside him, Alpha Dorian Vex emerges, adjusting the cuffs of his black leather coat. Unlike Elias, Dorian carries an aura of cool confidence rather than brute force. His high cheekbones and sharp, calculating eyes make him appear almost regal. His jet black hair is slicked back, a single silver streak cutting through one side. He wears a fitted black combat suit with a silver wolf emblem stitched over his heart. His ten warriors follow him closely, their matching dark attire giving them a ghostly presence.

In a fluid movement, he raised his head and looked straight at me the next moment. I was right. I knew my mind wasn't playing mind game on me. It was him. My sexy stranger from that night. And he was Mr. Marcello.

He bit his bottom lip, lowering his arms to his sides and glancing towards his palms before asking, "What is it? Y-You...you don't like what you see?" Nate had not spoken yet, gulping when he saw Dante's fingers drop the knife beside him and reach for the next button on his dress shirt. When Nate realized what he was doing, he instinctively leaned downwards, his mind completely pushing away the assassin murderous rumours and all the threats Dante had mentioned, instead reaching for his hands and stopping him from continuing down the placket. "What the fuck are you doing?" Nate pushed his hands away, closing the other buttons as well and hiding the chain back into his shirt.

Dorian caught the weapon with his good hand. The weight of the steel eradicated his existing sting, pumping him with blood-lust he failed to conceal. He stood up slowly, a malevolent grin spreading across his face as the pain in his arm seemed to evaporate, replaced by pure electrification coursing through him. “Now we’re talking,” Dorian chuckled darkly. He stepped out of cover, the diamond revolver resonating in the air with a deafening roar. Signaling the return of the true Leader that eradicated his target with an unsettling smoothness.

Rylan caught my gaze across the clearing and gave a subtle nod. Dorian waited at the center, cloak unfastened at the neck, sword strapped across his back. He looked like a king about to issue judgment. And in a way, maybe he was. I joined him, heart pounding beneath my ribs. Then I looked up - at the storm rolling over the mountains, at the wolves who had come from distant territories to decide what side of history they’d stand on. “It’s time,” I said. Dorian gave a single nod. The guards brought Aron forward, slow and careful, unchained but shadowed closely. He didn’t stumble. He didn’t flinch. He met the eyes of every Alpha who dared to stare at him.

“I believe we can create a better game, Dorian.” Dorian’s playful smile grew, revealing his blackened teeth. He took a step towards Darkous, his back slightly crooked as he stood over an inch smaller. Dorian had been abandoned as a child, leaving him alone in a vast wilderness on an uncharted dimension. The immortal had spent over a hundred years in solitude, living amongst the beasts of the realm. Darkous had found him on a scouting mission, instantly becoming friends with the feral immortal. Although Dorian had been in hell for over a century he remained feral, relying on his animalistic traits. Dorian had gone insane, slowly losing his mind. And yet, his knowledge was vast; matching his b

The man who once lived for my breath was now the predator stalking it, his every movement a jagged, lethal promise of my end. We were on the open observation deck of the Spire’s flagship, suspended thousands of feet above the burning Iron Shore. The wind howled around us, tearing at my silk gown and the Sovereign tactical gear that now encased his body. Dante moved with a sickening, mechanical grace, his obsidian arm glowing a sterile, blinding white. He was "Assassin 01," a ghost with no name and no mercy.

His presence filled the doorway like something difficult to move around. His eyes swept the room once. Then landed on Adrien. And then— Elena. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze. Interest. Recognition. Calculation. “D’Angelo,” he greeted, voice rough. “Soren.” No warmth. No hostility. Just acknowledgment. Soren took his seat without waiting to be invited. One player on the board. — The second arrived ten minutes later. Khaled Arman. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes.

The demon had just forced the locks of his vessel's memory. "Oh... this is exquisite," Astaroth whispered, tilting his head. "I can see them both, and you, little watcher, lurking in the shadows as your protégé surrendered himself to his boss." Uriel wavered. Carter’s memories flooded the connection: Dorian Thorne, before the accident, was no victim. He was a man of iron will, a dominant who enjoyed breaking Carter’s impeccable efficiency. And Carter... Carter loved him for it.