Chapter Text
His life could be much worse, Malik surmised as he strapped his falchion to his side. He gave his uniform and weapons a last inspection and nodded, satisfied. Everything was as it should be, from the soft leather boots he wore to the large belt with the stylized royal symbol emblazoning it, to the cowl half-hiding his features. Around his right bicep, he wore a golden torque. Around his left, a band of black ink tattooed into his skin. The marking of a slave. His weapons, he knew, were in perfect working order. Not even the strictest of the masters could dispute the fact that he was ready.
His eyes crossed his reflection in the still water of the basin he’d used to wash himself earlier. How he had changed since he first arrived here, as a scared child of barely eight. He had been lucky, really. The slavers who had abducted him from his clan had discovered in him an innate talent for fighting—and killing without mercy, even at his young age—and had led him straight to the fortress. Then, the Guardians’ masters had taken him in. They had spent the next twelve years training Malik to become the warrior and the man he now was.
His younger brother, Kadar, hadn’t fared as well. Already sickly when the slavers had attacked their camp, he hadn’t survived the harrowing journey across the desert. His death still pained Malik when he thought about it, but although he still sometimes dreamed of vengeance against the slavers, he realized it was nothing but idle fantasies at this point. He had to leave the past in the past, for his own sanity.
Truly, as a Guardian now, Malik had everything a man could ever desire. Food, drinks, clothes of the richest fabrics and weapons of the finest craftsmanship, and women and men as his preference dictated. The only thing he didn’t possess—would never possess again—was his freedom. And as of today, his life was forever tied to that of Masyaf’s royal family. If his charged died for any reason, his own life would be forfeit as well.
Altair, the young prince and heir to the kingdom turned fifteen tomorrow. It was the age at which, just like his father before him, a Guardian would be assigned to protect him for the rest of his life. When the news had reached Malik’s ears that he had been chosen to guard the boy, he hadn’t been certain what to feel. Pride, certainly. Pride that his skills were considered good enough to guard the kingdom’s sole heir. But also resentment. Here Malik was, asked to put his life on the line for a boy not even of age yet. A boy who had probably never lived through a single day of hardship in his life. He’d had no choice, though. This wasn’t an assignment anyone could refuse. And at the end of the day, Malik was a slave. His life hadn’t been his own for a very long time.
“Malik, it’s time to leave now,” one of the masters called to him from the other side of the door. His impatience was plain in his voice.
Malik gave the room he’d inhabited for the last twelve years one last look. He doubted he would ever return to it, or the Guardian’s fortress, again. This part of his life was over. Time to see what the future would bring.
*****
The prince truly was only a boy, Malik thought when he first set eyes on Altair’s face. At fifteen, Altair still hovered between petulant child and arrogant youth. Thin features, inquisitive eyes, and short brown hair didn’t quite manage to hide the plumpness of the kid he’d been not too long ago.
Right now, those eyes fixed Malik with open curiosity. “You are Malik Al’Sayf, right?”
Altair sat crossed-legged on a floor cushion, flanked by two of the palace guards and one of his father’s advisors, and looked up at Malik standing in front of him. Today, he wore what could be considered casual clothing here in the palace, black linen breeches and a simple white belted kamiz. Malik couldn’t help but notice that a dagger hung at his side, and he wondered if the boy knew how to use it.
“Yes, sire,” he replied blandly. The prince had to know this already.
“The masters say you were their best student.”
“Yes, sire,” Malik repeated, hiding the pride he took in those words.
After a short moment of silence, Altair got to his feet and went to stand in front of Malik. He was a somewhat shorter than Malik—and quite a bit lankier—but Malik expected they would be almost the same height by the time he finished growing up.
Altair cleared his throat before he spoke, as if trying to brush away his nervousness. “Malik Al’Sayf,” he said formally. “Kneel.”
Despite cracking on that last word, Altair’s voice held a hint of steel. His tone offered a glance to the man he might one day become. Malik knelt in front of his prince before his brain could completely catch up with his actions. His heart pounded in his chest, and his palm felt moist when he grabbed the pommel of his sword.
“In the name of my father, King Umar,” Altair continued, “Do you swear your life to me and to the throne of Masyaf? To protect and serve me even unto death?”
Malik’s throat was dry as sandpaper when he answered, “I swear, sire,” and unsheathed his blade to present it to Altair.
“Very well.” Altair sounded very young once again, and his hand was shaking slightly when he took the sword from Malik’s hands. But he didn’t hesitate to do what came next. In one swift move, he slid the blade across his palm, drawing blood. He then returned the blade, now adorned with crimson, to Malik.
Malik didn’t hesitate either. He drew the blade across his own palm, adding his blood to Altair’s. Sealing his fate. “I am now yours to command, sire.”
Altair turned to look at his father’s advisor. “Did I do all right?”
The advisor nodded without a word, his expression never changing.
*****
Altair’s sigh reminded Malik of a petulant child being denied dessert. “I’m sorry, sire, but it is too dangerous,” he repeated for the third time that day.
“You really are no fun, Malik,” Altair snapped, and scowled at him. “First you deny my request to teach me to use your hidden blade, and now you’d refuse to let me leave the palace?”
Not just a petulant child, Malik decided then and there. A brat. An arrogant, pigheaded brat. “We’ve gone over this already, sire. You are a prince. I am your Guardian. Leave the blood-letting to me. A prince doesn’t need to know how to kill a man.”
Altair rolled his eyes at him. In the last three years, the prince of Masyaf had grown taller, and although still lean, he wasn’t quite as scrawny anymore. Unfortunately, he still acted like a spoiled youngster more often than not. Malik tried to keep him out of trouble, but it sometimes tried his patience.
“True enough,” Altair said in a way that made Malik think trouble was once again coming his way. “I am a prince, and you are my Guardian. As my Guardian, you are mine to command. Right now, I am commanding you to escort me to the Black Hoof tonight.”
Malik ground his teeth together, but managed to keep his calm, barely, as he said, “That tavern is situated in a dangerous part of town, sire. I simply can’t let you go there alone.”
“But I won’t be alone, will I? You’ll be right there beside me, Malik. You’re always beside me.”
It was Malik’s turn to sigh. He knew he had lost. If his prince ordered it, there was nothing he could do but obey him. “I still object. This part of town is dangerous at night.”
“Your objection has been duly noted,” Altair replied, then grinned. “Now, get us some civilian clothes, will you?” With a flick of his hand, he shooed Malik away.
Cursing inwardly, Malik left. None of the masters had ever covered what to do in a case like this. For a moment, he thought of consulting with Yusuf, the older Guardian in charge of King Umar's security, but he quickly rejected the idea. If Altair was set on going into town tonight, Malik would simply make sure he returned safely to the palace before dawn.
Later that same day, Malik walked back into the prince’s chambers carrying two set of dark, nondescript, clothing. Altair was already waiting impatiently inside, and closed the door behind Malik as soon as he stepped through the threshold.
“Do you have them?”
“Yes, sire. But I would ask you to reconsider your decision. At least wait until I can organize an escort for you.”
“No.” Altair’s mouth set into a stubborn line Malik was coming to know all too well. “You are the one always telling me I should get to know my subjects. Well, that is what I’m doing now.”
Malik wasn’t buying it, but at this point there wasn’t much else he could do. In the end, short of tying Altair to his bed—and wasn’t that an idea—he couldn’t prevent him from putting his plan into action. He dropped both set of clothes on the closest chair and Altair grabbed the one on the top with greedy hands. “Perfect,” he said as he took in brown and black garments, and the dark cowl that would hide his features. “No one will recognize me like that. You’ve done a good job, Malik.”
Malik’s only answer was to grunt, but that didn’t put a damper on Altair’s enthusiasm at this little bit of rebellion. Without a moment of hesitation, he started stripping right in front of Malik, first getting rid of his belt, then his kamiz, and finally his pants. Malik’s breath caught in his throat and he gulped. Never before had his prince stripped in his presence, and what he saw—
He shut his eyes when he realized he was staring at the expanse of Altair’s back and his perfectly shaped butt. No. Thinking of his prince in this way would lead to madness. He was a boy. A kid. Barely out of childhood.
And you aren’t that much older yourself, a small, torturous voice reminded him. Only five years older, really, but Malik hadn’t been a child in a very long time.
“Hey, Malik. I doubt guarding me with your eyes closed works all that well,” Altair’s mocking voice broke through Malik’s thoughts.
When he reopened his eyes, carefully, Altair was once again dressed. Thanks Allah. He wore the clothes Malik had chosen for him, and was still fiddling with the fit of his cowl.
“Your turn,” Altair said and nodded to the second pile of clothing.
There was no way Malik was changing in front of Altair. Not when he feared he might have the start of an erection. From watching the boy change. Fuck. He grabbed the remainder of the clothes and stalked toward the door leading to Altair’s bathing room.
“Where are you going?” Altair called after him.
“Changing.”
When he returned several minutes later, Malik had regained his composure. He adjusted the fit of his new clothes, not liking the fact they missed the cleverly hidden metal plates of his usual uniform, or the fact he had to leave part of his weapons behind as he didn’t want to attract attention on Altair and himself while in town. A Guardian’s attire and weapons were simply too recognizable in Masyaf; he couldn’t hope to stay anonymous wearing them. He wrapped the black cowl around his head and lowered it to partly hide his face. He then touched his left wrist, making sure his hidden blade was still securely strapped to his forearm and in good working order.
Satisfied with his inspection, he looked at Altair. The boy was practically jumping in excitement, and his grin had something contagious to it. Malik felt his own lips start curling in answer, and he forced his muscles to return to a more neutral expression.
“Let’s go,” Altair said, impatient.
Malik hoped against all odd that they would be found out before Altair led them out of the palace, but the boy had planned his escape well. They traveled through little-used servants’ corridors until they reached the vegetable garden situated at the back of the palace’s barracks. The moon illuminated them for a moment, but Altair was quick to lead them both into the shadows hiding a old door leading outside the walls.
Darkness and shadows had never bothered Malik, as his night vision was perfect, but Altair fumbled a moment as he searched through his pockets. Then he took something out with a grin of triumph. He held the little key up and said, “Got it. It took me almost two weeks of research before I found it.”
Altair went to work on the lock. For a minute, it looked like the lock was rusted shut and wouldn’t budge, and Malik started to relax. “Sire, it doesn’t look like the key works. Let’s—”
“No. I’m almost there,” Altair interrupted him. The key finally turned in the lock, and Altair pulled the door open. “Victory,” he murmured, and slipped outside.
Gritting his teeth, Malik had no choice but to follow as Altair made his way into town. Idly, he wondered where Altair had heard of the Black Hoof, and how he had learned to navigate the city’s narrow streets. As a prince, Altair spent his days inside the palace, studying with his numerous tutors, or assisting with yet another state ceremony. Malik could only conclude that the boy had gotten his hands on a map of the city at some point. He scowled at Altair’s back. How had he done so without Malik’s knowledge?
You have been unobservant, he admonished himself. It couldn’t happen again. Part of Malik, however, felt some pride in the fact Altair had managed to play him. It had taken more than a little cunning on the boy’s part to have managed to circumvent Malik’s vigilance. if only Altair used his planning skill on something other than mischief…
They reached the Black Hoof without encountering any sign of trouble. Malik chose a table in a corner of the cavernous room, and indicated Altair should sit with his back to the wall. Malik sat to Altair’s right. Although he didn’t have as good a view of the tavern as he’d like, he much prefered for Altair to sit where he could best protect him.
Altair looked around the room, seemingly fascinated by the crowd. That same crowd only made Malik tense. So many threat could be hiding amongst them.
“So, what does one drink in a tavern such as this one?” Altair broke the silence to ask him.
“Beer, sire.”
Altair frowned. “Don’t call me that, Malik. We’re undercover, remember?”
“What should I call you then, sire?”
Altair made a face. “Altair. Just call me Altair.”
“I…” Malik hesitated, then shook his head. “I cannot do that.”
Altair rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and sighed deeply. “Then… just avoid calling me sire, all right?”
“Yes, si—Yes.”
“Good.”
When Altair raised his hand to summon one of the serving wenches to their table, a flash of gold caught Malik’s attention. He grabbed Altair’s wrist as soon as his hand was down again, surprising the boy into gasping. “Malik, what are you doing?” Altair said, sounding irritated.
“You didn’t take off your seal.” Malik scowled at the thick gold band encircling Altair’s right ring finger.
Altair shrugged and yanked his hand out of Malik’s grip. “It’s just a ring, Malik.”
“I don’t like it. Someone could recognize it.”
“In here? Doubtful. Most of those people probably don’t even know how to read.”
Their argument was interrupted by the serving wench’s arrival. Altair ordered beer for both of them. After she left again, Altair raised a hand to stop Malik before he could say any more. “No more, Malik. I am here to unwind, not to listen to your grousing.”
Malik’s jaw muscles tensed and he swallowed his reply. Damn brat, he thought again.
The next hour was spent mostly in silence as Altair drank his beer, then ordered a second one, all the while watching the people around him with great interest. Malik nursed his own beer, drinking from it infrequently, and then only when someone started paying too much attention to the fact he hadn’t in a while.
“Do you know why I came here tonight?” Altair said suddenly.
Malik’s attention turned away from the crowd and back to his prince. “No.”
“I refuse to become like Father. All my life, I’ve seen him hiding inside his own palace, behind his guards and his Guardian. I will never live in fear of my own people the way Father does. You understand, right Malik?”
“I… see.” So this was reason behind tonight’s expedition. “If this is your goal, there are less dangerous ways to meet with your subjects.”
“But none that allow me to observe them without being discovered,” Altair replied. “How else can I get to learn about their needs? No one ever tells me anything. It’s like living in a bubble.”
Malik fell silent again, and watched as Altair finished his beer and ordered a third one. He frowned, wondering if he should tell the boy to slow down. Considering that he drank alcohol so seldomly, this was getting to be a lot for him. In the end, though, he kept his peace. Altair would learn about the after-effects of alcohol on his own. A hangover had never killed anyone after all.
“Hey, Malik,” Altair said, in the middle of drinking his third beer.
“Hmm?”
“I’ve always wondered…” Altair pointed to Malik’s slave tattoo. “Did it hurt?”
Malik shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t?”
“I was very young, and in shock after being captured by the slavers,” Malik said matter-of-factly. “So I don’t really remember it.”
“Oh.” Altair looked down at his beer, suddenly looking like he might cry. After a moment, he pushed it away from him. “I think I want to go home now.”
“As you wish.”
Altair gained his feet, looking none too steady. He and Malik exited into the cool night air. Malik grimaced when the stench of stale urine and vomit reached his nostrils. Someone had been sick nearby. Fantastic.
“Let’s go,” he said shortly.
Malik led them away from the Black Hoof, keeping his senses alert for danger. His shoulderblades itched, but he couldn't sense anything. He forced himself to relax somewhat and keep pace with Altair.
Silence between them didn't last. ”Say, Malik, why do you hate me?” Altair asked out of the blue, his speech slightly slurred.
Malik perked an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“When you look at me, your expression is always so… disapproving. Why do you hate me?” Altair continued, undaunted.
“I do not hate you, sire.”
Altair pursed his lips, as though he didn’t really believe Malik’s words. Then, his expression turned green. “I think I will be sick.”
“You drank too much bad alcohol.” It was only to be expected, he thought with an internal sigh.
“Urgh. You might be right.”
“Lean on me, sire. Let’s get you back to the palace.”
Altair’s weight settled on his right side, warm even through Malik’s shirt. He wrapped an arm around his prince’s waist to prevent him from falling. Altair snuggled closer with a contented sigh. Malik opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. Instead, he simply said, “You’re drunk.”
“Yes,” Altair readily agreed.
Altair stopped walking, forcing Malik to also pause. “Sire—” he started saying, but Altair chose this moment to turn in his arms and face him. They stood with their nose less than an inch apart.
Altair smiled and reached to touch Malik’s stubbled cheek, his eyes slightly unfocused. “You know Malik, I always wondered—”
Malik never knew what Altair wondered, for at that moment he caught movement from the corner of his eye. His instincts took over. “Sire, down!” he barked, shoving Altair to the ground.
He raised his left arm and released the hidden blade just in time to parry the aggressor's sword. It connected with his forearm with a mighty clang and sent a shock wave all the way to his shoulder. He shove his opponent’s blade away from him and kicked him in the ribs, sending him careening backward. In the same fluid movement, he advanced on the man and grabbed his shoulder, only to thrust the hidden blade between his collarbone and spine, severing the carotid artery. The man died in a quiet gurgle of blood.
Malik scanned the alley and spotted four more assaillants. They were dressed as simple footpads, but he couldn’t be certain if they truly were, or if their attack was an assassination attempt against the prince. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Swift as a desert sandcat—and just as deadly—Malik pounced on the closest man and downed him before he could react. He dispatched a third man with the same deadly efficiency, and fear made the other two hesitate.
“Who sent you?” Malik snarled at them.
The men looked at each other, then scrambled away toward the mouth of the alley. Malik followed at a run, bent on getting an answer from them one way or the other. He’d not gone far when Altair’s scream pierced the night. Malik stopped dead in his tracks, his blood freezing at the sound.
He whipped around in time to see Altair grappling with a man in black. The man had grabbed Altair’s right hand and was trying to get to Altair’s seal off. The silver of a dagger flashed. Malik started running, but he already knew he wouldn’t get there in time before the man hacked away at his prince’s finger.
In a show of skill Malik didn’t know Altair possessed—unless it was simply the adrenaline of the fight—the boy kicked his assailant in the knee and the man buckled down with a cry of pain. Altair grabbed for the man’s knife and a fight ensued.
Before Malik could reach the prince, the would-be-thief kick him away from him and scrambled to his feet. He gave Malik one look, and possibly deciding he was no match for the Guardian, he flew toward the other end of the alley. For a moment, Malik thought of pursuing him, but a groan coming from Altair’s prone form stilled his feet. He returned to the prince’s side after giving the now empty alley a disgusted look.
“Sire, are you all right?”
Slowly, Altair sat up. His mouth was bleeding on one side from a deep cut that bisected his lips, and he held his bloodied right hand across his chest. “I… I’m fine, Malik.”
Malik knelt in front of him and grabbed his hand so he could take a better look at the wound. To his relief, Altair’s ring finger was still there, although the ring had left gashes in the skin from the thief trying to pry it off. Malik sighed. “Let’s get you back to the palace, sire.”
Altair nodded without a word.
*****
Altair let the healer examine his lip, only wincing when the old man applied one of his healing salves on it. The cut had stopped bleeding at some point before him and Malik reached the palace, but it still stung.
“I did my best, but I’m afraid it will leave a scar, sire,” the healer announced as he stepped back.
Altair waived the healer’s concern away. “That isn’t a problem.” His head pounded—too much alcohol probably, unless it was from his head hitting the ground when Malik had pushed him down. He wanted to be left alone. “Are you done now?” he asked the old man.
The healer inclined his head. “I am done, sire.”
“Good. Then you can go.”
The old man bowed and left the prince’s chambers on quiet feet. Altair sighed deeply and dropped back on his bed. Sleep. He wanted to sleep, and maybe forget the way he’d been jumped by that footpad and could barely defend himself. Without Malik there, he’d be dead by now. The pain radiating from his right hand reminded him he’d almost lost a finger in the attack.
“Never again,” he muttered. He’d been stupid to think a gold ring wouldn’t attract attention. He should have listened to Malik for once.
Speaking of Malik, he’d not seen the Guardian since their return to the palace. Altair had wanted to use the garden door again and keep their expedition hidden from the king, but Malik had refused. A glare had been enough to kill Altair’s objections before he could voice them, and before long Malik was carrying him past the front gate. After that, pandemonium reigned until Altair reached his chambers, escorted by several palace guards. Malik hadn’t reappeared at his side since then, which was unusual. Malik was always there, unless Altair was sleeping.
In spite of his headache, Altair got back to his feet and padded to his chambers’ door. He cracked it open and glanced into the hall. As usual, guards lined the walls at interval, but apart from them, the corridor was empty. Altair slipped out and closed the door behind him. None of the guards reacted to his presence; they were used to seeing him roam the palace at all hour. He thought of asking one of them if they’d seen Malik, but thought better of the idea. He didn’t like anyone knowing that Malik’s sudden absence bothered him.
Malik’s own room was situated just beside Altair’s, although the Guardian rarely used it for anything but sleep. Perhaps that’s where he was. Altair had only taken a few steps forward when some instinct made him stop. Someone was coming from the other side of the hall, shuffling gait sounding slow and somewhat unsteady. A moment later, the flickering light on the wall sconces illuminated Malik’s form, and Altair gaped in shock. Malik walked bent almost in half, as though a great weight had settled on his shoulders, and held himself up using the wall. His clothes hung strangely on his back.
“Malik,” Altair called out, but his words dried out in his mouth when Malik raised his head to look at him.
Glared at him, really. Malik’s eyes held a world of... resentment. And pain. What in Allah’s name had happened to him?
Without uttering a single word, Malik shuffled all the way to his door, pushed it open and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Altair standing utterly still in the middle of the corridor.
Once silence returned, Altair shook himself out of his daze and approached Malik’s door.
“Leave him be,” a man’s voice ordered just as he was about to knock.
Altair recognized the voice, and the slightly bent shape of the man. Rashid Ad-Din Sinan, also known as Al Mualim or The Mentor, one of his father’s closest advisors. What was the old man doing there at this hour of the night?
“Al Mualim, greetings,” Altair said, remembering his manners.
“Greetings to you, sire. I see the healer has done his work.”
Altair touched his lip, glistening with the herbal salve he healer had applied to it, and shrugged. “He left a bit ago. What’s with Malik? Why is he bent like an old man? He wasn’t hurt in the fight.”
Al Mualim’s expression turned cold. “No, but he failed in his duty to protect you, sire. Such a failure needed to be addressed.”
“Addressed how?”
“As it should, sire.”
“As it should?” Altair felt his impatience bubbling to the surface at the advisor’s bland tone. “What does that even mean?”
“He was punished with the lash. He has bled for his failure, as he should.”
Altair felt the blood drain away from his face. Malik, lashed. He had never meant for Malik to be punished. “But—” he started.
“Now, please return to your chambers, sire. Your Guardian will be back by your side in the morning. In the mean time, you should try to rest.”
Under Al Mualim unyielding gaze, Altair returned to his rooms, closing the door behind him and leaning against its sturdy frame. He ran a hand through his hair, and cursed. Shit. Malik was his Guardian, and his alone. Mine. They had no right to punish Malik without his permission. Altair kicked the chair closest to him, sending it careening to the floor. His rage, however, was impotent. It was much too late to change anything.
*****
The next morning, Altair found himself waiting nervously for Malik’s arrival. At eight on the hour, the door opened and the Guardian stepped inside. Once again, he wore his uniform and the falchion, short sword, and hidden blade that usually never left his side. Any trace of his punishment was gone from his posture. He stood straight once more, his shoulders squared and his expression unreadable.
“Malik—” Altair hesitated, closed his mouth, opened it again, but in the end the apology he’d been preparing all night never left his lips. What would Malik care about his apology. It wouldn’t change the fact he’d been whipped bloody because of Altair’s stupidity.
The silence stretched, heavy, uncomfortable, until Altair was ready to order Malik to speak. Then, Malik threw something at him and Altair only barely managed to catch the object. “Wha—” Puzzled, he looked down at what he’d caught, and his eyes grew round as he recognized what it was. It was a leather and metal bracer, very similar to Malik’s own, and worn by years of use. Attached to the underside of it was a hidden blade…
“I will show you how to use it,” Malik announced, leaving Altair even more dumbfounded.
“You said you wouldn’t, before.”
Malik’s lips thinned and his eyes glinted dangerously. “Last night, I failed to protect you, sire. I am but a man, and I realize now that I might not always be able to do so.” His expression said that such an occurrence left a foul taste in his mouth. “That is why, from now on, I’ll make sure you can also defend yourself.”
Altair stared at the weapon in his hand. “Where did you get it? I thought only Guardians had such blades.”
“It was my own while I trained at the fortress. Now, put it on.”
Malik’s own blade. Something in that statement warmed Altair to the tip of his toes. “I will cherish it.”
Malik snorted. “This is only for training. I’ll have a better one made for you. No one needs ever know that you wear it.”
Altair nodded as he inexpertly strapped the bracer on. It felt strange and somewhat constricting, as the stiff blade prevented him from bending his wrist correctly. His forearm was also leaner than Malik’s and the bracer had a tendency to move and turn on his wrist.
“Here, let me,” Malik said and grasped Altair’s arm without waiting for permission. Altair felt his cheeks flame at the touch of Malik’s callused fingers. He had the vague memory of leaning against Malik’s body the night before, much too close for comfort. Fortunately, Malik saw nothing of Altair’s discomfort as he fiddled with the bracer’s buckles and tightened it around Altair’s forearm.
“Better,” he finally said, sounding satisfied, and stepped back.
Altair raised his arm in front of his face and gave the hidden weapon a frown. Now, how did one— He pulled his hand back the way he’d seen Malik do before, and the blade slid free with a silent hiss. Altair recoiled in surprise. The blade had come an iota from slicing through his ring finger.
“Careful, sire, or you might well lose a finger,” Malik said calmly.
Altair scowled at him. Was it just him, or was Malik making fun of him? “Once has been enough, thank you very much,” he snapped back.
When Malik nodded, Altair could have sworn the Guardian tried to hide a smirk.