A/N: Hey guys! Here is the prologue to Shadows. It might be a little choppy, so forgive me. I haven't written anything in a while, so I may be a bit rusty.

Also: Most of the characters in this story will be both from ACIII and AC:Liberation. Those who aren't familiar belong to me and are purely original.

And the beginning is written in English, but the conversation is in French, thus why it's written in italics.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Ubisoft, so please don't sue.

And please don't forget to review; I would really appreciate your feedback.

The Kenway Estate, 1870

"You must be new to London. Where are you from?" the stagecoach asked. The shy, young Frenchwoman could hardly look up into his face, though he meant no harm in asking her such a question. "Come now, don't be shy." His heavy English accent made her cringe inside, but his handsome countenance put her at ease, just a little.

"...Paris." He snapped the reigns, and the wooden carriage lurched forward. The young woman adjusted her shawl on her shoulders; the air was much less forgiving than back home.

"Ah, the rumored city of love, yes? I've always wanted to visit it someday. They say that Paris has a way of drawing star-crossed lovers together under the strangest of circumstances." He looked to her for affirmation, and she politely shrugged her shoulders. "London must be a big change from where you're from. The clouds are always grey here, and we never have to worry about rain, because it's guaranteed eight months out of the year," he joked. When he realized she didn't find it funny, his smile faded, and he turned his eyes back to the cobblestone road.

London was certainly different. Everyone was so...gray, and dull. Perhaps the dreary weather made everyone look washed out like a worn garment.

"What's your name?" he attempted to resurrect the conversation. The sudden sound of his voice interrupted her train of thought, and she had to think for a moment.

"Aveline. Aveline de Grandpré."

"That's a pleasant name. It rolls right off the tongue. My name is Gerald Blanc. I was raised in Lyon." The horse whinnied, and she trained her eyes to the road ahead of them.

The streets were crowded and bustling with life. What seemed to be the heart of London was marked with tall, stately buildings made of brick. The large clock that she had only heard rumors of stood by itself. Its large hand passed the twelve, and it rang eight times, its chime ringing loudly in the air. A train whistled nearby; she hadn't noticed the station until it did. Just as in Calais*, there were fruit stands lining the streets, ports brimming with large wooden crates and goods from overseas wrapped tight under canvas and thick rope. It seemed city living didn't change, no matter where one went.

"We're almost to the Kenway estate. Do you know anything about your employer?"

"No. I only know that my sister worked for them."

"Then perhaps I should inform you of their history. Master Haytham Kenway is the owner of the estate; he inherited it from his father, Edward James Kenway, who passed some time ago. He is a master shipbuilder, and he worked closely with the British Royal Navy until he fell seriously ill. His wife, Madame Kanetthio, is a Native from the Americas. She was brought here when Master Kenway received word that she was with child. Their son, Connor, will one day be the inheritor of all his property and earnings since he is the only child. Now, he is an interesting character."

"Why?" she asked. If she were to be dealing with a silly little boy while attempting to complete her job under the watchful gaze of the Master of the house, then he would be a problem.

"He adapted to the customs of living in the wealthy class of London quite well. Despite his physical appearance, if one were to speak to him with their back turned, they would think he was an English gentleman. However, he uses his words like an American, and that is what makes him interesting. He spent such a short time in the United States, but he brought back so many of their ways. It puzzles the older ones, but the younger generations worship him."

"How is he so well-known?"

"First and foremost, his father's name gives him access to every single dinner party and social event that the rich arrange. He even attended the knighting of Sir George Young, the warden of Scotland Yard. And the women, of course, do not turn a blind eye to the young lad."

Aveline said no more, but rather, began to anticipate the teenage terror that would be awaiting her at the Kenway estate, perhaps lurking around a corner with a frog, or a rope to trip her feet.

Sighing gently, she smoothed down the loose curl dancing about her face. It was too late to turn back; she had made her choice, and she couldn't run anymore.

What must have been the Kenway estate lay before her, and she tried her best to remain composure. Despite the fact that it was in a bustling metropolis, the enormous knoll before her reminded her of the French countryside. The flowers in the small courtyard were well-maintained, and the fountain was carved into the shape of a woman in a loose robe holding a small orb in her hand. The stairs were elaborately carved out of stone, and the mansion itself was made of the same type of rock, though the numerous window panes were made of wood.

The wicked, pointed roofs of the main sections of the house seemed a bit intimidating, but the Gothic design also intrigued her.

"The first visit to the Kenway mansion always leave strangers in awe," he chuckled, pulling the horse to a gentle stop. "The late Master Edward paid to have this plot of land cleared so that this home could be built for his family and all the generations to follow. But we don't have time to stare in awe. It's best to get you acquainted with the others." He stepped down onto the rocky ground and extended his hand to her to steady her footing. She grabbed what meager possessions she had in her bag and took his assistance before following him up the stairs.

Aveline was very nervous for many reasons: she was alone in a city she didn't know, her employer sounded quite intimidating, and...

She didn't know much English and certainly not enough to hold a conversation. She wondered how Hélène fared, and if she ever learned English well enough to speak it fluently. "I'm sure the Kenways will not expect you to know English right away, so I will do my best to be around when there's something you don't understand," he assured her with a warm smile. Aveline felt a wave of relief wash over her.

"Thank you very much, Gerald." The moment he opened the door, they were met with frenzied activity. There were at least a dozen women hurrying in either direction of the hallway, some carrying tablecloths, others balancing silverware and fine china in their hands.

"I failed to inform you that they are having a gathering of friends tonight, so every single maid and manservant are on duty right now. Once you've met the family, Missus Ingleton will give you your assignment." As they ascended the stairs and walked down the hallways, she admired the paintings on the wine-colored walls, some of shiny-coat dogs and horses, and others of lush landscapes and forests of far away. Yet, there were also a few of a handsome yellow-haired man with a proud set of his jaw and deep blue eyes that penetrated the soul. Perhaps that was Master Haytham. And there were others of a distinctly attractive woman with hair as black as ink and eyes just as dark and mesmerizing. Her gaze seemed to follow her as she walked close behind Gerald. She concluded that that was Madame Kanetthio; she had never seen a Native of the Americas.

"I will inform you now: Master Haytham is rarely in a suitable mood to speak to anyone. His illness makes him very unpredictable, and sometimes hostile in his behavior. So please do not take offense to his actions." Aveline wanted to ask exactly what kind of illness he possessed, yet she held her tongue; if he hadn't disclosed it, it was for good reason.

Gerald opened the wooden doors and led her inside. Master Haytham's bedroom had dark furnishings and a large bed that sat up high off the thick rugs on the wooden floor. He was sitting upright with a pair of glasses perched on his avian nose.

"Gerald. I see you've brought company. Surely by the way she's dressed, she's not a suitor here for Connor," he spoke. His tone was painfully formal and proper—and she wasn't sure if she should have been insulted by his observation or not.

"No. This is the new maiden assigned to watch over Madame Ziio. Aveline de Grandpré."

This time, he actually took his eyes away from the book to give her a once-over. Surely that was not the man in the paintings. Master Haytham's hair was most definitely dark as a younger man, and his eyes were dismissive, almost as if he didn't want to acknowledge the existence of anyone besides himself. "She seems harmless enough. Exceptionally pretty. It's not that Ziio can't hold her own quite well, but we must exercise caution with strangers from other lands. Their customs can be quite barbaric."

Aveline rolled her eyes mentally and called him an expletive in her native tongue, but bowed slightly with a polite smile.

"Oh. She has manners. Lovely. Where is she from?"

"Paris."

"The rat hole just across the way. Despite their allied victory with the Americans, they fail to appease their own citizens just a few decades later. A strange occurrence, but not of my concern. Very well. Send her to my wife for appraisal. The last two girls left the estate in tears." He returned to his book, and apparently, their conversation was over.

The French woman left the room quickly behind her French counterpart to keep her temper from boiling over at the cost of her job.

"That is not the Master Haytham that employed me several years ago. He was much gentler and sympathetic towards the disadvantaged," Gerald told her. "Madame Ziio is pleasant most days, but it seems the difficulty of her pregnancy never fixed itself, and she is confined to her bedroom. If I am correct, it was your sister Hélène that kept careful watch over her and took good care of her. They will be expecting you to meet or exceed her performance. Since there is an event tonight, she will need your strength to tend to her guests."

He opened the door to her room, which was a drastic difference from Master Haytham's room. Her decorations were nothing like Aveline had ever seen, so they must have been from the Americas. They were strange, but beautiful in their exotic nature. Her walls were light blue, almost white, and instead of blankets comprised of fabric, they were heavy animal furs. Instead of paintings, she had what looked like a net with feathers tied to a loose string hanging on the walls. The traditional dresser with a vanity mirror sat on the other side of her room, and there were many dresses that hung in her wardrobe.

Aveline was so fixated on her surroundings, she had failed to notice the woman sitting by the window in a plump armchair, watching her intently. "You are so fascinated with what my husband provides for me, that you have failed to see the very reason for being in here." Her deep, strong voice caught her attention immediately, and the young woman suddenly felt very self-conscious in front of the older, beautiful woman. Her skin was the shade of mahogany wood, and her features were chiseled and broad. Her eyes were dark and perceiving, yet kind, and her raven-colored hair was braided into two neat plaits that fell to her bosom. "You must be Helen's sister. She did not lie when she said her younger sister strongly resembled her."

"Oui (Yes)," she said, immediately trying to find the English word for yes. "U-uh..."

"It's alright," she said with an assuring smile. "You will learn English soon enough. It was not an easy language for me to grasp, either. Gerald, make sure to give her a uniform and send her back to me."

"Of course, Madame. Right away." Aveline bowed and went on her way, the hostility she once felt quickly dissipating with the kindness of her mistress.

"I like Madame Ziio," she informed Gerald immediately.

He smiled. "Perhaps she has a soft spot for you, since you are not from this part of the world, either. She keeps her distance from the other maids, because they are hesitant to be in her company. They have their reservations about Natives from America and thus they are scared of her. But she is a very pleasant woman."

"And what about their son, Connor?" she asked as Gerald began to ascend a flight of stairs.

He gave her a less than pleased look. "You will meet the future of the Kenways soon enough. Stay here while I go fetch a uniform in your size." He disappeared up the stairs, and she began to look around again. One painting in particular caught her interest. It was most definitely Madame Ziio, but she had a baby in her arms. It was a dark-haired child with sharp, piercing eyes, much like the blond-haired man in the other portrait. Her guess was that the baby was Connor. Not much time must have passed since it was completed.

The sound of a masculine voice behind a closed door drew her attention further down the hall, to the last room on the level. The door was barely open, but the voice was clear and strong. Whoever it was, he must have been reciting a poem or speech.

"...joust of words, so to speak."

"Aye. 'Twas exactly what you say." She heard a book slam shut and hit the floor; she stepped closer to see who it was that was frustrated. He passed by the door, a flash of blue and tan. "No. This is stupid. I hate English literature." His accent was not like Madame Ziio's, nor like Haytham's, but a mix of the two. "I'm turning into one of them. I didn't go to America for nothing." His footsteps approached the door, and she turned to leave, until she felt his hands reach out of the door and pull her in by the arms.

What smelled like alcohol and paper flooded her nostrils as she was forced to stand in front of whoever it was that grabbed her.

Connor Kenway was no spindly teenage boy. His lips were fixed in a thin line, and his eyes were full of fiery impudence. "What have we here?" he asked.

She remained silent, not only because she couldn't speak English, but because his presence was so overwhelming and dictatorial, that she felt afraid.

"You must be one of the suitors that can't speak English. That is...feasible." He stepped closer, and in the shadow of his hulking presence, she stepped back to allow herself room to breathe. But with each step back that she took, he filled that with his own until she was pressed against the wall. He reached out and grabbed her face, holding it firmly in his hands. "I'm not too impressed. High cheekbones, lips much too full, but..." He forced her to stare directly at him. His eyes were like molten gold, and held that same intensity that the baby in the painting possessed. "Green eyes with your skin is peculiar. Where are you from?"

"Monsieur (Mister) Connor..." she started to say. As if burned by fire, he pulled away, confused—almost insulted.

"You're not a suitor; you're a maidservant. Why are you in here?" he demanded. The once inquiring, curious demeanor he possessed quickly turned into hardened arrogance.

She attempted to explain, stuttering over the few words she could say in English. "I...Madame...uh...help..." Within seconds, Gerald appeared with her uniform and ripped her out of Connor's reach as if he were a predator.

"What is she doing here? Why is she not in uniform?" he turned the question to the more seasoned helper.

"I was procuring a uniform for her and she must have wandered off. I'm sorry, Master Connor. Suivez-moi (Follow me), Aveline." Without looking back, she hurried behind Gerald, eager to escape Master Haytham's son.

But she would never forget his eyes.

And so there you have it! This sets the stage for the rest of the story. As I mentioned in the beginning author's note, many familiar faces will appear in this story and will pop up very often.

So we've been introduced to the Kenways. Haytham seems to be unchanged, but what mysterious illness does he have? We will find out eventually.

And Connor...my goodness, he is quite a character, indeed. Not to worry, he will reveal more of his coined reputation among his fellow Englishmen. But the moment at the end, is just one run-in between our two beloved Assassins.

Ziio will probably be the Mother Hen throughout the story. And she will always be on Aveline's side, which is a plus for this story, since her son and husband don't seem to care too much for Aveline.

Expect an update within the next few weeks; I can't give you an exact date, but I'm shooting for February 24th.

*Fact Tidbits: Calais is a real city in northwestern France. It's a port city and they do send out and receive goods from other countries to distribute to mainland cities.

Please do check out the poll on my profile. It's crucial for the development of this story: to have an Assassin-Templar conflict or not to have one? Just keep in mind: this is AU, so making no mention of it shouldn't be a problem, right? But still, you guys have a measure of control over which direction this story goes.