The caravan grew larger with every passing day. Hunters from every province joined them, their banners fluttering, their wagons packed with weapons and relics. It was no longer just a traveling party—it was a full delegation of the Order of Ash, rolling toward the heart of Christendom.
Azazel kept to the shadows of his carriage. He pressed his back against the wooden wall, refusing to step outside. His fear wasn't of demons this time, but of men—of familiar faces. Basil and his entourage. The chance of crossing paths with them here made his stomach knot.
By the time they reached Rome, the Eternal City rose before them like a crown of marble and firelight. The carriages halted outside the Vatican walls. Juan and Warden Étienne de Villeneuve stepped down first, stretching their legs, their laughter carried by the wind.
But before Azazel could follow, the air in his carriage froze. A sudden pressure seized him, pulling him forward as if invisible chains had wrapped around his body. In the blink of an eye, the world shifted.
He stood in a different space entirely.
It was vast, timeless—neither dark nor light. An endless expanse of pale stone arches bent overhead like a cathedral unmoored from reality.
For some reason, it resembled the space inside the Codex a little. And for the same reasons(there was none known to Azazel), the connection with the Codex was too distant now, he couldn't hear Johann Weyer's voice.
And there stood Aurelius de Montferrat, the Grand Master of the Order.
Gone was the warmth of his voice, the jovial camaraderie of the journey. His presence now was heavy, imperial, his eyes like burning coals.
"I know about the Codex," Aurelius said, his tone sharp as a drawn blade. His voice echoed in the vast chamber. "Guard it as you would your very eyes, boy. Demons hunt for it. Why—" he paused, a shadow crossing his face, "—is not for you to know yet. But if Johann entrusted it to you, then it means he had a plan for his grandson."
Azazel clenched his fists.
"What are you saying?"
"You were the one who killed two demons there, right? What was our surprise when we couldn't…" he stopped midsentence and sighed, "Doesn't matter now. Pistols and Codex are with you. But where are the daggers?"
Azazel shook his head.
"He ordered they be buried with him. Everything else… he gave to me."
For a long moment, silence. The chamber seemed to grow colder.
And then—Aurelius laughed. A short, mirthless chuckle.
"You are still a child," he said. "Johann truly raised you in secrecy, did he not? The world does not even know he is buried. That, too, was part of his last request. A month before his death, he visited our old stronghold—" he raised his hand, and the arches around them shimmered, revealing for an instant the fortress of Tomar in Portugal, the legendary seat of the Templars—"and gave me his will. He asked that his passing be used as leverage—to finally force the Vatican to grant hunters an initiation in Rome. Even in dying, he thought of the Order."
Azazel's chest tightened. His grandfather… planning even in death.
"And his last words," Aurelius continued, voice softer now, "were for me to protect you. If you chose the path of the hunter, I was to guide you. He spoke as if he already knew this moment would come. How could one man see so far ahead? Johann always baffled me…"
For a brief instant, the Grand Master looked almost human, almost weary. But the steel returned quickly to his eyes.
"That is why you will give me your pistols. They are more than relics—they are symbols. I will raise them at the ceremony here in Rome, as proof of your grandfather's legacy. His memory deserves no less. You need to do it for your own safety."
But Azazel did not move. His muscles coiled, his stance dropping low. The Codex surged at his command, its aura spilling over him. He could use its powers at least.
His pupils widened, black swallowing the whites of his eyes, his veins burning with power. Thirty percent—the limit he could control. Enough for perhaps two minutes.
The Grand Master's lips curved into the faintest smile.
"So be it. This will be your first lesson," Aurelius said, drawing his gauntleted hand toward the air as if unsheathing a blade of light, "As my first and probably last disciple."