When the scratching of the pen finally stopped, the Warden laid the documents aside, straightened in his chair, and looked directly at Azazel.
"Let's do this properly," he said, his voice now carrying the tone of formal introduction. "I am Étienne Duvivier, Warden of the Paris branch of the Order."
His gaze lingered on the boy for a long moment before continuing.
"From the way you look, and from the relics you carry… I'd wager you only have one thing of the three requirements. Your grandfather's ashes. Am I right?"
Azazel gave a short nod, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat.
Étienne smiled faintly.
"Then you're in luck. The Commander-in-Chief himself will sign your recommendation. Personally. As for the entry fee… if my memory serves, your grandfather, kept a sizeable account in Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena. Oldest bank in the world. If you still carry his name, the funds are yours to claim. A cheque will suffice for now."
Before Azazel could speak, the Warden reached into a drawer and produced a yellowed promissory note, the paper thick with the smell of old parchment.
"Until the funds are formally transferred, you will owe this branch the amount. You sign here."
Azazel stared at the page. The number written at the bottom—10,000 francs—seemed to burn into his eyes. The idea of owing so much to anyone twisted in his gut.
But before he could voice his hesitation, Étienne leaned forward.
"You can either sign it, or walk away from the initiation. But if you walk away… know that such a chance will not come again in this lifetime."
The silence was heavy. Azazel's hand hovered over the page, but deep inside, he hesitated. Grandpa had always warned him:
Debt binds more than money. Every pact leaves a mark. Moreover when his dead grandpa will shoulder the debt. Even after death he continues to look after him.
The thought gnawed at him.
For some reason his grandpa was strangely silent, as if waiting for Azazel to make his own choice.
Juan noticed his stillness, and his expression hardened. His voice was low but edged with urgency.
"Azazel… this is your road. Don't you dare turn away from it because you're afraid of a contract. You came all this way. We both did."
For a long second, Azazel's amber eyes locked on Juan's. The sharp defiance there reminded him of his grandfather, of nights spent training until his muscles screamed.
Slowly, he exhaled—and signed his name in a quick, decisive motion.
Étienne took the note back with a satisfied nod, sliding it into his desk.
"Good. Then here's my advice: stay in Paris for the next day. You have time to spare—more than enough. The Grand Master himself will be traveling to the Vatican tomorrow, and he can bring you along. Safer than going on your own."
Azazel nodded reluctantly.