The hotel room in the heart of Paris was warm, lit by the soft glow of an oil lamp on the table. Juan sat with his legs crossed, a newspaper in his hands, his eyes scanning one particular column.
"Huh. Listen to this," he began. "Nicholas Flamel—alchemist, philosopher… supposed to have been dead for centuries. Yet people claim they've seen him walking with his wife in the Le Marais just last week."
He smirked.
"Imagine you see your grandpa."
Azazel shot him a flat look.
"Not funny."
Juan chuckled, folding the paper.
Azazel rose from his chair.
"Come on. Let's visit the local hunters' market."
Juan glanced at him, then down at the coat Azazel was wearing.
"Sure. But when's the last time you washed that thing?"
Azazel raised an eyebrow.
"It's fine."
"No, it's not," Juan said firmly. "And your hat too—if you want it to last, it needs proper care. I know a few places… unless you know one?"
Before Azazel could answer, a voice echoed in the back of his mind—deep, familiar, edged with the scent of old tobacco.
[Rue de l'Arbalète. The old quartermaster's shop. Tell them I sent you.]
He blinked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he rubbed the book holstered near his pistols. He bought a new holster that would have a separate place for a book on the left and for two pistols on the right.
"Actually… I know a place. Not far."
Juan gave him a long, suspicious glance but didn't argue.
They left soon after, the gaslights of Paris casting long shadows as they crossed narrow cobblestone streets. The shop was small, tucked between two shuttered cafés, its sign carved with faded letters. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and soap. Without asking questions, the tailor took Azazel's coat and hat, nodding with professional reverence at the quality of the pieces.
With that done, they set off toward the Church of Saint-Eustache. The grand Gothic facade loomed against the winter sky, its bells silent.
Inside, the church was dim, empty save for a single priest near the altar. He looked up as they approached.
The priest's eyes narrowed.
Both young men spoke the Hunters' Creed in unison, their voices echoing under the vaulted ceiling.
Without a word, the priest beckoned them to follow. They moved past the altar, through a narrow door, and down a spiral stone staircase. The air grew cooler, damp with the smell of centuries-old stone.
Unlike his other Azazel's experiences with black markets, this time priest showed the way.
The tunnels opened into the ancient Paris Catacombs—but these were not the public ossuaries tourists sometimes visited. Here, the walls were lined not with skulls, but with strange talismans, old weapons, and lanterns burning with blue flame.
It smelled of sulfur. This strong scent permeated all the walls.
They walked deeper, until at last the passage widened. The sound of voices, bargaining and laughing, drifted from ahead.
When they emerged, the sight stole their breath.
Beneath the bones of Paris sprawled a vast underground market—stalls lit with witchlight, hunters from every corner of Europe trading relics, maps, cursed silver, and bottled spirits that glowed faintly within their glass prisons. The air hummed with power and the smell of iron and incense.
Azael involuntarily gaped.
The priest stopped, turned to them, and spoke in a deep, ceremonious tone:
"Welcome to The Lantern Veil—where no coin is too rare, and no soul too clean."