They barely made it out of the collapsing chamber.
The group followed Grandmaster. It felt like forever as they returned through the tunnels, lungs burning with dust, until they reached the cavern where the dragon lay.
The beast's massive head shifted, one golden eye opening as they passed. Even Aurelius bowed low, and the others followed his lead, lowering themselves in silent reverence. The dragon rumbled a sound that might have been approval—or perhaps amusement—and shut its eye once more.
The catacombs stretched long and winding, every step back toward the surface feeling like another eternity. At last, they came to the great sealed entrance. Aurelius approached the stone doors, removed a heavy golden cross, that Pope gave him before they entered, from his neck, and slid it into a narrow recess. With a sharp twist, as if turning a key, the mechanism groaned alive.
The ancient doors swung wide.
And there, waiting in the threshold of holy light, stood the Pope himself. His robes glimmered faintly in the glow of lanterns, his expression calm, unreadable. At his side were two imposing figures clad in heavy crusader-style cassocks, embroidered with old Slavonic crosses. Their presence carried the weight of ages.
The Pope spread his hand toward them.
"Behold," he intoned, "the Apostles of the Slavs—Cyril and Methodius."
They both had grey, almost the color of Azazel's dyed, hair and beards.
The two bowed in perfect unison, their faces solemn. They stepped forward to enter the catacombs, their boots echoing softly against the marble.
As Methodius passed by, he halted. His sky-blue eyes locked on Azazel—no, through him. It was as if the man peered beyond the mask, beyond the boy, to something buried deep within.
A tense silence stretched. Then Methodius shook his head.
"My apologies," he said in a low, almost regretful voice. "I mistook you for someone else."
Without another word, he followed Cyril inside. The heavy doors sealed behind them, cutting off the light.
Aurelius approached the Pope and handed him the silver-threaded sack and the golden cross. "The Mask has been retrieved, but the reliquary chamber was destroyed," he reported with grave composure.
The Pope merely inclined his head. "So be it. The relic matters more than the stone around it."
As they walked back through the Vatican halls, the Pope slowed his pace, turning his gaze toward Aurelius and the young hunters at his side. "Have you chosen your escort for the coming council of churches?"
"Yes," Aurelius answered without hesitation. His hand gestured toward Azazel. "My pupil—Lucien."
The Pope's eyes lingered on the masked figure. "And will he appear before the council still hidden in that… visage?"
Aurelius inclined his head slightly. "My student prefers to keep his identity anonymous."
The Pope's voice hardened, his staff clicking once against the marble floor. "No. That cannot be allowed. To appear before the highest gathering of Christendom and the Emepror in such a mask would not only be improper—it would be a grave insult to all who attend."
Azazel felt his gut tighten beneath the mask.