The Pope's voice was final, carrying the authority of centuries.
"This will not do," he said, his gaze fixed firmly on Aurelius's student. "In that grotesque mask, he cannot appear before the council. It would be a disgrace."
He lifted his hand, and from the silver-threaded sack Aurelius had given him, he drew out the relic itself—the Mask of Saint Cyprian—they had just retreived. Its dark contours gleamed faintly, threads of silver woven through like veins of moonlight. Even from distance, Azazel felt the chill of its presence.
"Here," the Pope continued, passing the mask into Aurelius's hands. "See to it that your student wears this mask during the reception. The council will accept no less."
The group stood stunned. Not a word passed between them, though each one understood the weight of what had just been decided.
Aurelius broke the silence with his usual commanding tone.
"Enough. You've heard his Holiness. Now, disperse. Go home. Rest. I have matters yet to settle."
Their limbs heavy with exhaustion, the group obeyed without protest. The long trek back through the basilica felt endless, every step dragging like lead. By the time Azazel and Juan reached the cool, damp air of the underground of the Abbey, their bodies simply gave way. Almost a day without sleep.
They collapsed onto their straw beds, sleep seizing them almost instantly.
Azazel's eyes fluttered shut, but his mind stirred.
"Grandfather… we need to talk," he whispered into the darkness of his own thoughts.
No answer.
And then—like a door creaking open inside his skull—the world shifted. The familiar pull of the Codex drew him into its strange, luminous realm.
He stood beneath an endless sky of shifting constellations, the glyphs of forgotten languages drifting like smoke. And there he was—his grandfather—waiting for him, his figure outlined in pale, spectral light.
"Grandson," the old man greeted warmly, his voice echoing like two overlapping tones.
Azazel's heart lurched. He rushed forward, arms outstretched—but when he tried to embrace him, his hands passed straight through. Nothing but shimmering air.
His grandfather shook his head, smiling faintly yet tiredly.
"Remember, boy. This is but a fragment of my soul. A shadow made tangible by the Codex. I am not flesh anymore… I have been gone a long time."
Azazel clenched his fists, his throat tightening.
"I know," he whispered, "but it doesn't make it easier."
The old man sighed, the sound like wind through brittle leaves.
"Tell me then, why did you summon me tonight?"
Azazel hesitated. A thousand questions boiled inside him—why the mask, why the demons, why the silence, what plans he has, when he started all these games. But the Codex was merciless in its limits; he could only reach for one truth at a cost he payed back at Constantinople.
So he exhaled, lowering his head.
"What is hunter initiation? What is its essence?"