"One question less," his grandfather said, his voice already beginning to fade with the dissolving dreamscape. "Do you have anything else you wish to ask?"
Azazel bowed his head. "Thank you, grandfather. Only… please, answer me more often when I call. It feels like I'm talking to silence half the time."
The old man gave a weary smile. "My chances to answer you freely are limited. Remember that. The Codex is not an open door—it is a debt. And debts are always paid."
He sighed and added:
"Please, think about the prayer. About the prayer to yourself. For the world to acknowledge you. You should come up with it before the..."
Before Azazel could respond, the dream broke apart.
He woke suddenly, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the abbey's cellar ceiling. The straw mattress scratched against his arms. For a moment he lay still, adjusting to the dim light. Then he noticed it: the bed beside him was empty. Juan was gone.
Azazel pushed himself upright, feeling the stiff weight of the mask against his skin. He reached up, startled—he hadn't even noticed he'd fallen asleep in it.
"Brilliant," he muttered to himself. "The demon hunter of the century, nearly suffocates himself in his own mask. Grandfather would be so proud."
He chuckled at his own stupidity before stretching. His ribs still ached faintly, but nothing he couldn't manage. He needed a bath, a change of clothes, and some fresh air.
The baths were quiet in the early morning. Steam curled in the corners as Azazel scrubbed away the dust and sweat. Afterward he dressed in a clean tunic and cloak, then set out into the streets of Rome.
Autumn had claimed the Eternal City. The sky was a deep, polished blue, bright but soft with the season's gentler sun. The air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of falling leaves and roasting chestnuts from street vendors. Ivy climbed the ancient stone walls, tinged with gold and red. Fountains trickled with clear water, reflecting the ochre and terracotta of the old buildings.
For a brief moment, Azazel forgot about demons, relics, or broken ribs. He let himself enjoy the sight of children running across a piazza, pigeons scattering at their laughter, while merchants called out their wares. Rome, for all its secrets beneath the stones, still breathed like a living poem above them.
His walk eventually carried him to the training barn. From inside came the muffled rhythm of strikes, grunts, and the scrape of boots on wood. Curious, Azazel pushed the heavy doors open.
The scene that greeted him made him blink—and then laugh aloud.
There stood Matteo, the team's archer, gripping a wooden sword like he was about to duel a ghost. Opposite him, Ino—the swordsman, whose precision with a blade was unmatched—was holding a bow with all the wrong posture, looking as though it might snap back into his face at any moment.
Azazel leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
"Did I hit my head harder than I thought in the last mission," he said dryly, "or have the two of you just decided to swap destinies?"
Matteo scowled, trying to look serious with the clumsy sword balanced in his hands. "Laugh all you want. Adaptability is the key to survival."
Ino, for once, looked almost sheepish. "It's… an experiment."
Azazel smirked. "Right. And next week I'll find Juan knitting chainmail while I'm asked to cook dinner for the whole Order."
At the mention of Juan, he paused, glancing around. "Speaking of which—any idea where he is?"
The two exchanged a quick look, a flicker of something unspoken between them. Their smiles were not mocking this time, but oddly crooked, uncertain.
Matteo shrugged. "Things… have changed a little since you were in the infirmary."
Ino nodded. "You'll see soon enough."
Azazel frowned slightly, unsettled by their cryptic tone. Whatever it was, he wasn't sure he liked the sound of it.