The sea was merciless—but merciful too.
For three days after the break-in, Azazel could barely move. His muscles ached like shattered glass under skin, and every time he shifted, a jolt of pain raced from his ribs down to his legs. Grandpa had warned him: long synchronization always came with a price. And while the stealth ability helped him pull off the theft, his body was now cashing the debt.
The sailors, though gruff and sharp-tongued, treated him like a celebrity ghost story come to life.
They hovered around him, offering bread, salted fish, and even bits of tobacco—though he refused that last one. Whenever he managed to sit upright without groaning, they pelted him with questions.
One of the most persistent guests, was a sailor named Juan, he is a disciple of Bartolomeu.
"Is it true your grandfather once sealed a sea-wraith in a storm barrel?"
"Did he really shoot a Leviathan from a cliff with one shot?"
"Was it true he had a demon lover?"
Azazel wasn't sure what amused him more: the wild stories or the religious fear the sailors still carried under their jokes.
Looks like his grandpa was not only feared by demons.
It didn't take long before Azazel understood that every man aboard had known Johann Weyer—not just in passing, but as part of some long-forgotten brotherhood of blood and waves. They were all older now, slower, more superstitious. But when they spoke of their captain's old friend, their eyes lit like lamps on stormy nights.
At the heart of it all was Captain Bartolomeu Dias.
Each evening after sunset, when the deck quieted and the sea settled, he'd lean over the starboard side, puffing his pipe and telling stories no priest would dare write down. Tales of sea demons, drowned cults, treasure maps that could only be read in moonlight, and of course—Johann Weyer.
"Your grandfather," Bartolomeu rasped one night, "once shot a demon straight through the eye. The thing had three heads. Don't ask me how that worked."
Azazel laughed, then immediately regretted it as a stab of pain laced his ribs.
On the fourth day, after the sky turned a shade of melancholy gold, the captain finally invited him into the cabin.
The door shut behind them with a heavy creak. The space smelled of salt, sweat, old paper, and spice rum. Maps were nailed to every surface. Ropes hung like forgotten nooses. A cracked sextant lay beside a set of silver shot-glasses. The kind of place where secrets were normal, and honesty suspicious.
Azazel had barely sat when his stomach betrayed him—growling with hunger that could shame a kraken.
Bartolomeu raised a single white brow and chuckled.
"That brings some memories."
He poked his head out the door and barked an order in a dialect of Spanish or Italian Azazel didn't recognize.
"Bring food! And a bottle. Not the bilge-wash. The one we keep for storms and guests."
The cabin shook slightly as the ship cut through a thick wave, but Azazel didn't even notice anymore. He was starting to feel like part of it—an extension of the creaking planks and humming ropes.
Luckily, he doesn't have seasickness.
When the food arrived—stewed lamb, barley bread, figs soaked in wine—Azazel devoured it without ceremony.
"You always eat like that?" Bartolomeu smirked.
Azazel wiped his mouth with a sleeve.
"Only when I'm not being hunted or lectured."
The captain leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The firelight flickered over the map-strewn surface.
"So, Azazel. Tell me—what's your plan once you reach Europe?"
Azazel hesitated. The urn was still nestled in his suitcase, surrounded by holy water, salt bombs, and powdered wards. His answer, for now, was simple:
"Win. Whatever it takes."
Bartolomeu took a deep sip from his tin cup and smiled.
"Good answer. But you should know something."
Azazel looked up.
"When your grandfather traveled with me, he said the same thing. And he meant it. Even when it nearly killed him."
The silence between them thickened like smoke.
Then the captain raised his cup.
"To the fools who chase him."
Azazel clinked his own against it, fire in his belly.
"And the devils who fear him."