When morning came, the sun slicing through shuttered slats, Azazel sat upright, breath caught in his chest.
Was it a dream?
He darted to the stairs.
Still unlocked.
He rushed down. The room greeted him like an old friend. Candles melted into wax puddles. The pedestal. The Codex. The shelves stacked with relics and dust.
No dream.
It was real.
Azazel took a deep breath, washed his face, and set out. He didn't need a map. The route was already burned into his brain, he had lived in this city almost all of his life.
Phanar district.
The Jewish quarter buzzed with morning energy—merchants setting up carts, children chasing chickens, incense curling through side streets.
He reached the landmark—the Church of St. George of the Mangana, silent and looming.
To its side, nestled between a faded tailor's shop and a spice seller's tent, was a nondescript wooden door.
Azazel knocked: twice. Then once.
The door creaked open.
"Figured it wouldn't take you more than two days," said Basil, standing there with a cup of steaming tea. His coat was cleaner today, his expression unreadable.
Azazel stepped in cautiously.
"You expected me."
Basil chuckled. "Your grandfather always said curiosity would be the death of you. I'd wager it'll be your survival instead."
The interior smelled of old wood, sweat, and tea leaves. The room was cluttered like a retired soldier's den—maps, weapons, books, and candle stubs.
Basil placed the tea aside and pulled something from beneath a cloth: a dark urn, etched with glyphs Azazel didn't recognize.
"This," Basil said solemnly, "holds your grandfather's ashes."
Azazel's chest tightened.
"He wanted you to have them for the initiation ritual. You'll need them."
Azazel stepped forward slowly.
Then Basil said something that made his breath catch.
"His name was Johann Weyer."
Azazel froze.
"Johann... what?"
"Weyer," Basil repeated. "The most powerful and strongest demon hunter of the past generation."
Azazel shook his head.
"He never told me. I never—"
"He wound you round his little finger, boy," Basil said, pouring another cup of tea. "He made you laugh, made you train, and made sure you never knew what was coming. That was his gift and his curse."
Basil walked to the far wall and placed the bronze urn on a worn velvet cloth.
"With his network still alive, you have access to things most men dream of. His contacts. His debts. They'll help you, if you're worthy."
Basil turned to Azazel, dead serious, placing his arm on the urn with ashes.
The urn had golden glyphs and patterns on it.
"But not before you learn. You're not ready. You have knowledge to consume. Books to master. Weapons to understand. Rites to memorize."
He picked up a cloth from the counter and tossed it toward Azazel.
"You bleed, you bandage yourself. You get cursed, you crawl through it. No crying."
Azazel smirked faintly. "Charming."
"If you need me," Basil continued, "I spend Thursdays at a hole called the Brimstone Barrel. It's near the old Greek quarter, just behind the spice market. If I'm not there—"
"You're probably dead?"
Basil grinned. "Exactly."
Azazel glanced around the room. Candles. Vials. Holy water. An axe with runes etched into the handle.
Then he looked up.
Painted on the ceiling, faded and cracked with age, was a mural of a pentagram—but different. The points glowed faintly, and symbols from every major religion encircled it.
"We. Hunters believe in many things. Your grandfather's faith laid in more than just God," Basil said, seeing his stare. "He believed in the war between light and dark. And in the men and women caught in the middle."
Azazel stepped back toward the door.
"Guess I better catch up, then."
He didn't see it—but Basil smiled, watching him go.