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Altaïr ibn La‘Ahad, they called him.
Eagle, son of no one.
And as such Altaïr had spent a good amount of his life; alone.
When you didn't have folks, family or friends to lose; to impress, or rely on, you only had yourself to measure life by. And he had been doing pretty damn good so far, in his opinion.
Admittedly, it hadn‘t come out of nowhere. Al-Muallim had warned him of the hazards of his overconfidence.
‚Those who fly too high, fall down low.‘
Confidence, if earned, was encouraged though. And so Altaïr pushed himself during missions Al-Muallim had bestowed him with. He had wanted to prove himself capable, prove himself worthy of possessing the ego he factually had. He didn‘t need a prestigious family, didn‘t need friends to be worthy.
He had himself and his skills, and that was sufficient.
At the age of twelve, he already excelled in all disciplines required for master assassins — designated for people far above his age, stature and experience. Whether it was reading tracks, finding targets with a majestic falcon, close combat or stealth exercises.
At twelve he was already Al-Muallim‘s brightest prodigy— ‚the eagle of Masyaf‘ they called him, thanks to his brave and perfectly executed leap of faith at age nine.
Again, the youngest to ever take the leap in Masyaf.
Altair was used to being at the top. To be amongst the best — if not the best himself. He didn‘t need anything or anybody else but himself to feel strong in this life.
That is, until he became the friend of the King of Swords.
Malik al-Sayf.