The stew was rich. The figs were sweet.
And the past sat between them like a ghost neither could ignore.
Azazel sat hunched over the wooden table in the captain's cabin, coat draped over the back of the chair, the urn hidden but never far. Across from him, Captain Bartolomeu de Dias spooned his stew with practiced ease, his sea-worn hands moving slowly, like he'd tasted this same meal in another lifetime.
They ate in silence for a while. Then Bartolomeu finally spoke—his voice soft, yet edged with old grief.
"You know… your grandfather told me he felt it coming. Death."
Azazel stopped chewing.
"When was this?"
"A year before it happened. On our last voyage together."
The captain leaned back with a sigh, his gaze lost in some faraway stormcloud.
"He said something strange to me… Something I didn't understand until recently."
He mimicked the memory, his voice lowering in pitch:
"Bartholomew, if I don't make it back one day… keep your ship sailing through Constantinople. Just for a year. If nothing happens—leave it all behind. But if something stirs… someone will find you."
He looked at Azazel then, eyes like the tide—wary but deep.
"And here you are."
Azazel's throat felt dry. He reached for his tin cup, took a sip of wine, and nodded.
"He always planned three steps ahead. Even in death."
"That was his curse," Bartolomeu muttered. "And his gift."
He leaned forward and tapped the table with a finger.
"But listen here, boy. You should be more careful with those pistols."
Azazel glanced down at the holsters strapped at his hips.
The old man gave a mirthless chuckle.
"Because they're worth a king's ransom. In gold. In blood."
He set his cup down, hard.
"Do you know how many collectors, priests, hunters, and monsters are looking for those? Not for honor. Not for history. But to sully the memory of your grandfather. Johann had many allies. But his enemies are of not less quantity."
Captain sighed.
"He was a mountain, Azazel. And now that he's gone, the scavengers circle, hoping to desecrate what's left."
Azazel clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of the pistols heavier now than ever.
"Let them try," he muttered.
But Bartolomeu shook his head, grim.
"You don't get it yet. These days… evil doesn't just hide in shadows. It walks in daylight, wearing perfume and titles."
He stood slowly, his coat falling back into place, revealing a beautifully decorated sabre strapped to his waist. The hilt gleamed like a relic from a forgotten empire—curved, obsidian-forged, with golden engravings that whispered of both blessing and curse in Portuguese.
"A gift from your grandfather. Saved my neck more times than I can count."
He drew it slightly. Just enough for Azazel to glimpse the runes burned into the blade.
"Now I carry his name where he can't."
Azazel's hand brushed the wheel-lock pistols.
"So do I."
The ship rocked gently, as if Constantinople itself had sighed behind them.
"You've got a long road ahead," Bartolomeu added. "And trust me, it won't be the monsters that break you. It'll be the people who once called themselves your friends."
Azazel nodded slowly.