The Black Sea was calm now. The morning sun cracked open over the horizon, washing the waves in golden fire.
Azazel and Juan stood barefoot on the deck, bruised and panting, the echo of their final sparring match still tingling in their arms. The crew cheered lightly from above, a few coins exchanging hands—bets settled.
Juan wiped sweat from his brow and chuckled.
"You're not so bad for a land boy," he smirked.
Azazel grinned back.
"And you're not so smug once I get through your guard."
They clasped forearms like warriors, then hugged like brothers.
Bartolomeu smoking his pipe watched them from afar with a warm look.
"Johann… If only you were here…"
As the vessel finally pulled into the harbor of Varna, Bulgaria, the scent of pine and salt filled the air. The dockworkers were already shouting, ropes flying, crates moving. The ship groaned one last time as it anchored into place.
Captain Bartolomeu Dias stepped forward, his heavy coat rustling like sails in wind.
"You both did well. And I've done what I promised."
He looked at Azazel first.
"Your grandfather was more than a comrade. He was... a necessary storm. Whatever you're chasing, Weyer—catch it. And don't lose yourself in the hunt."
Azazel bowed his head deeply.
"Thank you, captain. For everything. I'll never forget it."
The old man turned to Juan then and, with surprising reverence, unclipped the curved sabre from his belt. Its hilt was carved from obsidian and wrapped in dark sharkskin with golden writings. The blade, gleaming even in the morning mist, bore faint engravings in Portuguese.
"Duarte would've wanted you to have it," the captain said quietly. "And this too."
From a wooden box near his feet, he pulled out a sealed urn—ashes of Juan's father.
Juan froze.
Even his cocky expression slipped away.
"Captain…"
"You're ready now. Use it wisely. Fight for more than yourself."
Juan took both gifts, his jaw clenched, his eyes betraying more than he'd ever say aloud.
He nodded once, putting urn in his suitcase and sabre behind, like a real pirate.
The gangplank lowered. The city of Varna awaited beyond it—stone buildings, misty streets, and rumors of hunters already whispering through its shadowed alleys.
Azazel adjusted the strap of his suitcase, making sure the urn of Johann Weyer and his supplies were safely tucked inside. He checked his big inner pocket where the Codex was.
He turned one last time to look at the Devil's Wake.
Captain Bartolomeu stood like a statue, pipe in mouth, wind in his beard.
"Fair winds, boys," he said.
After they disappeared in the crowd of people wearing Portugese clothes he whispered under his breath.
"It's time to retire, isn't it Johann?"
He looked in the sky.
"Like you said," he turned to his cabin's door, "Next generation will let no demons pass."
Door shut with a loud thump.