Paris.
After weeks of travel they finally saw the city rising like a dream from the distance. Spired towers, bustling streets, and the faint glow of candlelight reflecting off the Seine. Azazel could feel Europe's heart beating under his boots.
The hunter team which escorted them led the way through narrow streets toward the Paris branch of the Order's Association. Stone gargoyles stared down from rooftops; the city smelled of smoke, bread, and rain.
They had a day and a half before the end of registration. Better to be late than risk some clerical disaster.
Inside, the Association's hall was a cathedral of its own—vaulted ceilings, banners of the Order, walls lined with relics of past victories. Hunters moved everywhere: scribes filling ledgers, initiates training in a side hall, veterans discussing contracts over wine.
Azazel walked in, his grandfather's dark coat and hunter's hat drawing a few curious glances. He tugged the brim lower, hoping to blend in.
They barely stepped past the entry hall before a voice thundered across the marble:
"You—STOP!"
Azazel froze as a broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver in his beard barreled toward them.
[Étienne de Villeneuve – Paris Warden of the Order. Be careful, he might've noticed my hat and coat on you.]
Voice of his grandpa resounded in his head.
The crowd parted, whispers rippling: "That's the Paris Warden…"
Azazel blinked, unsure how to react, as the man shoved him back against a column, his heavy hand pressing into the young hunter's chest.
"Where did you get that hat, boy?!"
A towering man with a scarred face and streaks of silver in his hair stomped forward, his boots cracking against the marble. For some reason Étienne wore too much clothes, even a scarf. That made him look even bigger compared to Azazel.
Whispers rippled in the hall.
"The Paris Warden…"
"Who's that kid to get his attention?"
Azazel barely turned before a heavy fist slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.
"Where did you get that hat, boy?!" he repeated.
The world spun for a moment as Azazel hit the stone floor.
The brim of the hat rolled aside.
And as he pushed himself up—his coat shifted.
The twin pistols gleamed in the light of the hall.
Silence.
Absolute.
Like the entire cathedral was holding its breath. The Warden's hand twitched toward the pistols—but not in aggression, rather in hesitation, as though touching a holy relic.
The Warden's eyes widened in recognition.
Juan's sabre pressed cold against the Warden's neck.
"Step back," Juan said, voice like iron.
Warden retreated slowly, blade below his chin.
Azazel's pulse thundered in his ears, but he pushed himself up, dusted off his coat, and placed a steady hand on Juan's arm.
"It's fine."
Juan didn't move a muscle sabre still in 10 cm from Warden's neck.
He met the Warden's furious eyes, unflinching.
[Tell him your name]
"I am Azazel."
The Warden froze.
Then his anger melted into something closer to awe—and maybe unease. He slowly raised his hands and tapped the sabre aside.
"Please follow me."
Warden went past Juan and welcomed them into his office.
Azazel nodded to Juan.
Juan walked hesitantly after Étienne. He put his sabre back into scabbard.
Azazel retrieved his hat from the floor, set it back on his head and followed Juan deeper into the hall.