Azazel's voice cracked like thunder in the chamber.
"They're mine! My grandfather passed them down to me—by right! By blood!"
His fists clenched at his sides, trembling. The words burned his throat, raw with pride and anger.
Across the desk, Aurelius did not rise, did not flinch. He merely leaned back in his chair, his silver hair catching the candlelight, eyes calm as the sea before a storm.
"So it seems," Aurelius said slowly, "that your grandfather did not share everything with you."
Azazel froze. The words felt like a blade pressed against his chest.
"What are you talking about?" he hissed. "He—he told me—"
He reached inward, straining for the familiar presence in the Codex, the voice of his grandfather that had always been there in the back of his mind. Answer me. Tell me this isn't true.
Silence.
Only silence.
Azazel's heart pounded. The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing closer with every second of that unbearable void.
Aurelius studied him in the stillness, then let out a low breath. "So. He truly does not answer. Old fox… clever as ever."
The Grandmaster's voice softened, almost regretful. "Azazel, I am sorry. But your grandfather and I agreed: those pistols will serve the Order only in the hands of the strongest. We need more than heirs. We need leaders. Symbols. If they remain with the unworthy, they will do more harm than good."
"You mean me," Azazel spat.
"I mean," Aurelius said firmly, "that if you cannot claim victory, you cannot claim them. Your grandfather trusted me with this. In exchange for setting the pistols as the prize, I swore to guide you, to teach you, to ensure you had every chance to rise. He agreed. Because he knew—as I do—that the strongest must wield them. The one who triumphs in this initiation will not only inherit Weier's mantle… they may surpass even him."
Azazel felt his chest tighten, fury boiling, shame gnawing at the edges of it. He suddenly felt like a child again—like someone had snatched a gift from his hands, saying he wasn't old enough to play with it.
He tried again to call to his grandfather, desperate, pleading. Say something. Deny it. Please.
Nothing.
The silence was answer enough.
His amber eyes burned as he swallowed the bitter truth. If this was real, then his grandfather had agreed. Aurelius was not lying.
Azazel's voice was low, heavy with frustration. "Fine. If the pistols are out of reach until I prove myself, then tell me something else."
He lifted his gaze, meeting the Grandmaster's steady eyes.
"Tell me about Isabella. Her style. Her weaknesses. Everything."