The carriage rattled along the cobblestones, its iron wheels creaking as it carried them southward. Inside, the air was heavy—not from smoke or dust, but from the company Azazel found himself in.
Seated across from him, the Grand Master leaned casually, his wide-brimmed hat resting on his knee. Beside him, the Warden of Paris adjusted his gloves and scarf, exchanging knowing glances with the man who led them all. Juan sat next to Azazel, fidgeting with his sabre, his eyes darting between the two elder hunters like a child listening to giants tell old war stories.
Their conversation flowed naturally, steeped in years of memory.
"Do you remember the siege in Ragusa?" the Parisian Warden asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "If not for Weyer, we'd have lost half the southern coast to those damn spectres."
The Grand Master chuckled.
[This silly snowflake!]
Amused voice of the grandpa from the Codex seemed to show that Johann had a lot of fun listening to it.
"He didn't even want to be there, that was the funniest part. Always complained about the sea, swore it made him sick. Yet when the tide turned, he was the one who stood first on the battlements."
[Heh, Aurelius, after all I saved your asses there!]
"Grandpa could you be a little quitter?!"
Azazel made a short comment in his mind.
[Sorry >_<]
Looks like his grandpa even learnt how to transmit images into his head, cause a clear picture of a smiley face appeared at the back of his mind.
Both men laughed softly, as though recalling a mischievous friend.
Azazel sat stiffly, his fingers curling on his knees. His name—his blood—was the quiet thread weaving through their stories, and yet he felt like an intruder hearing them.
Then the Grand Master's tone shifted. He leaned forward, his gaze landing firmly on Azazel.
"I couldn't believe when I received your letter on my way to Paris," he turned his head to the Warden, "And was shocked to meet his grandson so soon! When Juan told me I almost fainted!"
Azazel blinked, uncertain.
"Your grandfather was not just any hunter."
The Grand Master exchanged a glance with the Warden, then said it plainly:
"Johann Weyer was the Grand Master of the Order before me."
The words struck harder than any blow Azazel had taken.
"W–what?" His voice cracked, disbelief etched into his face.
Even Juan's jaw dropped.
"You… you didn't know?!"
Azazel shook his head furiously, his chest tight.
The Grand Master leaned back, sighing through a smile.
"Eleven years ago, he stepped down. Truth is, he never much cared for titles. He carried it for six years… then chose to pass it on."
"Those six years are now called the Golden Campaign against demons. Do you think that he's called the strongest hunter for no reason?" Juan stepped in.
Étienne nodded, adding with quiet reverence:
"He chose Aurelius," he looked at the Grand Master, "with his own voice. No one argued. Who could, after Weyer spoke?"
Azazel's stomach twisted. To hear them speak of his grandfather with such honor, such untouchable respect—it was like hearing of a stranger. They spoke of a legend, not the quiet, stern man he had known in their hidden home.
His fingers itched to open the Codex, to pour through history, to demand answers from his Grandpa. The urge burned in him like fire.
"Why… why didn't he ever tell me?" Azazel whispered.
The Grand Master's smile faded, replaced by that same unreadable calm.
"If you wish to know his reasons, you'll have to find them yourself."
No more words were given. The elders resumed their quiet talk of campaigns and fallen comrades, leaving Azazel in silence.
For the rest of the journey, the boy sat hunched, his brow furrowed, a storm brewing in his chest.