Fiothin

Malik sighed heavily and held his horse back. The black mare took a few dancing steps and halted her trot as her rider stared after the cloud of dust disappearing down the road. Altaïr… Malik shook his head, the angry words he had spat at Altaïr still burning his lips. Altaïr… Was he ever anything but trouble? It had seemed that he had truly changed. The Mentor's corpse had gone up in flames; Altaïr had shouldered the burden of the dissent and confusion his actions had caused. He had stood firm amid the chaos of those days, six moons behind them, unflinching, his face an unchanging mask of stern determination.