He led Jacob back to the kitchen, a place that was easily the heart of this small house. There wasn't much here that was personal. Just the same things that could be found in any other house in the village, except for the scent of the soup. The village wasn't much of a place for personal belongings, after all - and having been at home, he wasn't even wearing his mentor robes. Just the simple Masyaf pants and tabard, his cowl over his head. Some things never changed.

"No more, thankfully," he said as he gave the soup another stir, the stove's fire banked to keep the pot at a tolerable simmer instead of a rolling boil. "But Malik's arrival has... complicated things. The day I saw on that message. It was also the day of his death, which I dare not tell him."

And that was when his head bowed, eyes closed as the weight settled onto him. "He is not the Malik I knew. He has more scars, more silver hair. I do not care for him any less, however - which... is a part of the problem."