Azibo’s Rise and the Fall of the Order
Azibo was raised in the shadows.
He knew nothing of a childhood filled with laughter, nothing of the warmth of a mother’s embrace. He was born into the Order of Assassins, an heir to blades and whispers.
His earliest memories were of the mountain fortress of Alamut, the stronghold of the Order. The air there was always crisp, tinged with the scent of cedar and the faint aroma of oil from the torches that burned at night. The fortress sat high, nestled within the Persian mountains, a place hidden from the eyes of the world—a place where boys were shaped into killers.
And Azibo? He was one of the most promising among them.
Azibo’s life was built on discipline and blood.
Each morning before dawn, he and the other initiates rose from their stone pallets, the cold biting at their skin as they dressed in silence. There were no wasted words. No complaints.
They trained until their bodies broke and their minds sharpened.
- The Art of the Blade – He was taught to kill in a single strike, whether with a dagger, a sword, or his bare hands.
- Stealth & Infiltration – Moving unseen was second nature to him; he could vanish into a shadow before a man even noticed he was there.
- Poison Mastery – A slow, agonizing death or a painless one—the choice was his.
- Philosophy & Strategy – A blade could end a life, but words could shape the course of history. Azibo was taught how to manipulate, deceive, and outthink his enemies.
By the time he was twelve, he had already killed.
By fifteen, he was leading missions deep into enemy territory, eliminating targets with surgical precision.
By twenty, he was feared.
But strength alone was not enough.
To earn his place among the true assassins, Azibo had to survive the Trials.
One night, he and three others were taken to a cavern deep beneath the mountain. They were left with nothing—no weapons, no food, no water. Their only task? Survive.
They quickly realized they were not alone.
In the darkness, they heard the growl of something feral—a starving leopard, its eyes glowing in the dim torchlight.
One initiate panicked, tried to run. The beast was on him in seconds, his screams echoing through the cavern.
Azibo did not run.
He did not panic.
Instead, he picked up a jagged stone and waited.
The moment the beast lunged at him, he sidestepped and drove the stone into its throat. Blood gushed across the cavern floor, soaking his hands.
He stood over the beast’s twitching corpse, panting.
He was the only one to walk out of that cavern alive.
His second great test came when he was tasked with killing three men in three nights, each in a different city.
The first was a corrupt noble in Isfahan—Azibo poisoned his wine, watching from the rafters as the man clutched his throat and fell lifeless.
The second was a warlord in Baghdad—a brutal man who thought himself untouchable. Azibo slipped into his tent at midnight and slit his throat, leaving before the guards even knew he was there.
The third was the hardest—a brother of the Order who had betrayed them.
Azibo had known him since childhood.
But when the time came, he did not hesitate.
With a single thrust of his dagger, the man breathed his last.
When Azibo returned to Alamut, he was no longer an initiate.
He was an assassin.
And Hasan-i Sabbah, his adoptive father, was proud.
Hasan-i Sabbah was more than just the Grandmaster of the Order.
To Azibo, he was a father.
A man of iron will and unshakable faith. The Order followed him not just because of his wisdom, but because of his vision—a world where the weak were protected and the powerful feared them.
But power breeds envy.
And envy breeds betrayal.
The day of Hasan’s funeral was a day of mourning.
The entire fortress gathered in silence, dressed in dark robes as his body was laid upon the ceremonial pyre. The flames roared into the sky, carrying his spirit to the heavens.
Azibo stood among his brothers, his face a mask of grief.
But beneath that grief, something felt wrong.
He noticed it in the way certain men stood apart from the others, their hands too close to their weapons. In the way whispers carried just a little too long.
Then—a scream.
A blade flashed.
The mutiny had begun.
The first strike came from within.
Some of their own brothers turned traitor, stabbing those closest to them before the rest even knew what was happening.
Azibo moved instinctively.
One assassin lunged at him—he caught the wrist, twisted, and snapped it like dry wood. The traitor screamed, but Azibo had already taken his dagger and plunged it into his gut.
All around him, chaos.
Blood sprayed across stone walls. Blades clashed. The Order was slaughtering itself.
Azibo fought his way through the carnage, cutting down any traitor in his path.
But there were too many.
He saw his closest brothers cut down one by one. Saw the great halls of Alamut set ablaze, fire licking the banners that once bore the sigil of the Order.
This was not a battle.
This was annihilation.
Then everything went black.
