The Paris Warden's office smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint trace of candle wax. The room was lined with old portraits of hunters, each gaze seeming to follow Azazel as he sat stiffly in a leather chair.
Across the massive oak desk, the Warden of the Paris branch leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on the boy.
"So," he said, voice low and measured. "Where did you get those pistols?"
Azazel hesitated. He had anticipated this question, yet his throat tightened. Juan sat beside him in silence, his sabre resting on his knees.
"They belonged to my grandfather," Azazel said finally. "Johann Weyer."
The Warden's eyes flicked to the pistols once more, as if he already knew the answer.
Without a word, he reached for the cage with a hawk on the corner of his desk. His fingers moved rapidly, sending short bursts of writings across the parchment.
[To: Grandmaster of the Order.
Subject: Inheritance of Johann Weyer located. Immediate verification requested.]
The sound of the stubborn hawk filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace. It wasn't too cold outside, it was end of September and not too cold, so it made no sense to waste wood on lighting a fireplace.
Warden tied a small paper to its leg and sent flying away.
Azazel and Juan sat in the heavy silence, not daring to speak.
When the Warden finished, he finally turned his gaze back to them.
And to Azazel's surprise—he rose from his chair, circled the desk, and pulled the boy into a sudden, firm embrace.
When he let go, he extended a strong, calloused hand to Juan.
"And you… judging by that sabre, you must be Bartolomeu's apprentice. Juan Barbosa, right?"
Juan nodded.
"Good. You two—" the Warden's voice softened into something like nostalgia, "—you remind me of your grandfathers in their youth. Reckless. Hungry for battle. Full of fire."
Azazel tried to relax, but the weight of his pistols and the Codex at his side reminded him of the secrets he carried.
Then the Warden leaned against the edge of his desk, folding his arms.
"I assume you came here for one reason. To register for the initiation in Rome, the Vatican?"
Azazel and Juan exchanged a glance, both nodding.
The Warden's tone shifted into official formality.
"Then hear the requirements.
First—you must bring the ashes of an initiated hunter, proof of your legacy.
Second—you must have the written recommendation of an active hunter in good standing.
Third—you must pay the entry fee of 10,000 francs."
Azazel's stomach plunged.
"T-Ten… thousand?"
The Warden nodded gravely.
"Consider it the price of admission. The Order cannot afford to waste resources on candidates who are unprepared—financially or mentally. Equivalent to a king's ransom, boy." He smirked faintly.
Juan didn't even flinch.
Instead, he reached into his coat and calmly placed two documents and a folded slip of paper on the desk.
"Recommendation from Bartolomeu Dias," Juan said. "And the bank withdrawal for the fee."
Étienne examined them, nodded in satisfaction, and began filling out the registration forms.
Meanwhile, Azazel sat frozen.
His hands twitched against his knees. His gaze darted from Juan… to the Warden… back to Juan again.
The world suddenly felt heavier.
A hundred lifetimes of his grandfather's training… and one mistake.
He had left Constantinople without a single coin.
The room was silent except for the scratching of the Warden's pen—and Azazel's racing heartbeat, echoing in his ears like a war drum.