The morning sun filtered through the dust-covered glass of their rented room, casting pale slivers across the wooden floor. Juan was still asleep, arms crossed behind his head, faint snores rising with each breath.
Azazel stood at the narrow window, fully dressed and silent. He glanced at the coat he wore—his grandfather's old hunting coat—and pressed two fingers into the inner pocket.
Still there.
A single silver franc, dull and slightly scratched, likely forgotten there years ago. It glinted dully in his palm.
He clenched his jaw.
That was all he had.
In the whirlwind of stealing the urn, escaping Constantinople, and sailing to the northwestern part of the Osman Empire, Azazel had forgotten the most basic thing—money. No coins. No notes. Not even a bartering token. His entire suitcase was filled with hunter supplies, anti-demon powder, codices, and books. Holy water? Yes. Jerky? No. Gold? Absolutely not.
He exhaled slowly, glancing back at Juan's still-sleeping form.
"He paid for the room," Azazel thought, ashamed. "He even offered me food yesterday. I can't let that continue."
Pulling the coat tighter around himself, he slipped out silently and made his way back into the undercroft of the black market beneath the church.
The atmosphere was a little livelier than the day before. A few more torches lit the corridor, and a new bulletin board had been rolled in on rusty wheels. Dozens of crumpled slips of parchment were pinned to it—hunts, retrievals, escorts, and cleansings. Some marked with the official crest of the Order. Others were private commissions.
Azazel recognized the system. He had seen it in Constantinople: local missions posted for bounty, often divided by risk level or distance.
Most papers had stamps, signatures, or red wax seals.
He scanned the board quickly.
Escorting a merchant's daughter to a monastery.
Investigating missing livestock.
Cleansing a crypt beneath a ruined abbey.
Tracing suspected vampire sightings in the forest beyond Devnya.
The names and coins danced before his eyes—most requiring upfront investments. Silver bullets. Horses. Crosses. Salt.
Azazel grimaced.
He couldn't afford any of them.
But then—he spotted it.
Two small notices pinned low on the board, both written in the same hand. The parchment was thinner, smudged at the corners.
"Two disappearances. Same area. Low-risk request. Payment combined upon completion. Signed: Mayor of Topoli."
Azazel leaned in.
Topoli was a small village just west of Varna, no more than half an hour on foot. The missions offered only minor rewards, barely enough for a meal and a room—but they were close to one another, and both unclaimed.
He didn't hesitate.
He tugged the nails free and rolled the two requests together into the lining of his coat.
By the time the sun had risen high, he was already on the road—alone.
Just a traveler-hunter with worn boots, a heavy suitcase, and a single silver franc tucked in his coat.
"Let's see," he muttered to himself, eyeing the dusty path ahead. "What kind of welcome Topoli has for a young broke hunter."