The rooftops faded behind him.
Azazel cut through the alleyways like a phantom, the urn pressed tightly to his chest. His coat clung to his frame, soaked with sweat, soot, and secrecy. The weight of the Codex pulsed faintly in his bag. The city was behind him—Constantinople's lights dwindling as he slipped between the market's dying torches and the black fog of the harbor.
Ahead, the docks stirred with movement.
A massive trade vessel rocked gently at the edge of the water, its sails half-furled, crew calling out into the night in sharp Greek, Ottoman, and Italian tongues. The wind smelled of salt.
The Devil's Wake.
That was its name.
Azazel sprinted down the stone wharf. Every second mattered now. The tide was turning. Ropes creaked, lanterns dimmed, sailors began drawing back the last planks.
"Almost there…"
He didn't wait for permission. He opened his suitcase and put urn into it.
He leapt.
With a burst of strength and perfect footing, Azazel caught the trailing rope that hung from the mainmast. His fingers burned, muscles screamed, but he pulled himself up and landed hard on the slick wooden deck, the suitcase still clutched in one arm like a child.
A shout rang out.
Then another.
Steel gleamed as half a dozen sailors surrounded him, blades half-drawn, boots pounding the planks.
Azazel didn't flinch.
"Where's the captain?" he shouted.
No answer—just the rustle of weapons and narrowed eyes.
So Azazel went louder.
"I said—where is that old barnacle?! Where's Bartolomeu Dias?!"
Silence fell like a blade.
Then—laughter.
A deep, grating chuckle echoed from above as an old man stepped out onto the quarterdeck. He wore a heavy sea-coat and a crooked hat, his beard streaked with white and smoke curling from the pipe in his mouth.
Captain Bartolomeu.
He looked Azazel over, squinting through the darkness.
"No one calls me like that since…"
Until his gaze dropped—down to the boy's hips.
The pistols.
Even in the dim lantern light, they shone with unmistakable precision. The curved silver filigree, the twin barrels, the sigils of banishment etched along the handles. No mistaking them.
The old man's face turned grave.
"Well I'll be damned," Bartolomeu rasped. "That ghost really went and left a pup behind."
Azazel gave a quick, sharp nod.
"I'm Azazel Weyer. And I'm here to claim my grandfather's favor."
He pulled back his coat slightly, revealing the Codex tucked against his ribs, then gestured with his free hand toward the urn.
Bartolomeu Dias stared a moment longer, then stepped down slowly.
"Get this boy off the damn deck and give him a bunk," he barked to the others. "No one touches him. He sails under my protection now."
The sailors backed off, grumbling but obeying.
Captain walked past Azazel with a glance over his shoulder.
"You've got his madness in your eyes, kid," he muttered. "Let's hope you've also got his aim."
As the ship's anchor groaned up from the sea and the sails unfurled with a crack, The Devil's Wake pulled from the harbor.
Azazel stood at the stern, wind in his hair, the city where he lived all his life vanishing behind him.
On the 23rd of October he finally left Constantinople.