[This… this cannot be.]
Johann's voice inside the Codex was worried, something Azazel had never heard before. [Why is he here? He should be in Africa…]
Azazel's grip tightened on his daggers. "Who are you?" he demanded into the shadow.
A laugh slithered through the chamber, low and cruel. "How foolish of you, mortal, to ask when you already know the answer."
From the darkness, the figure stepped forward. Goat-like horns curled from his brow, his eyes burned gold like a lion's, and his hands—blackened and twisted—caught the pale sunrise spilling through the window, glinting with unnatural shimmer.
Smell of sulfur filled the room.
A coil of shadow rose, a smoky arm forming from his chest, and it lashed forward, seizing Azazel by the throat.
He choked, his boots scraping against the floor.
"When the Commander spoke of human movements… I was interested. We were dispatched to seed disturbances, little fractures of nightmare. And so…" The demon's voice deepened, shaking the dust loose from the rafters. "…I made my game here, with monks who no longer dreamed, only whispered. They were boring toys."
Azazel clawed at the smoky hand around his neck. The demon leaned closer, breath reeking of rotten. "Do you even know how dull it was to hide all the way here for two months?"
The daggers in Azazel's hands pulsed, hungry. His blood answered. With a guttural cry, he carved his palm wide open, letting the blades feast. They vibrated, alive.
"Eat this," he hissed.
The room detonated in a scarlet blast. The blood-forged explosion tore through the shadows, staggering the demon and snapping the smoky grip. Azazel used the chaos, flinging himself toward the window.
Glass shattered around him as his body burst into the open air.
Outside, the courtyard lay frozen. Dozens of monks stood still as statues, their whispers gone silent. Dawn had broken—the curse's power waning with the morning light.
Azazel didn't waste a breath. He spun his daggers, blood webbing into ropes. He hooked the crimson lines to the stone wall and swung downward, his ribs burning with pain.
Midair, he drew a crimson signal flare from his belt bag. The flare of highest danger, reserved only for life threats.
His group actually used one of these back in Venice when they faced supernatural they couldn't fight against.
His thumb hovered.
Jaw clenched, Azazel made his choice.
He leveled the flare not at the sky but at the shattered window behind him—the chamber where the demon still lurked.
With a crack like thunder, the flare erupted into the broken window, painting every wall, every stone, every window in blinding red light.