The hours dragged on inside Julien's private workshop — a cramped chamber lit by flickering lanterns, heavy with the smell of oils, powders, and fabric dust.
Julien worked tirelessly, pausing only when new clients intruded and demanded his attention. Then, like a conductor returning to his orchestra, he would reappear, clapping his hands and circling Azazel with renewed fervor.
First came the hair. Julien's scissors snipped with terrifying precision, strands falling like black feathers onto the wooden floor. He muttered to himself in French as though sculpting a statue rather than cutting a boy's hair.
He put some strange-smelling things on his hair.
Then came the measurements. Azazel, scowling, was forced to strip down while Julien wrapped cords around his arms, chest, waist, and legs, scribbling numbers on scraps of parchment.
"Stand still, mon cher. Yes, yes, shoulders strong but waist too narrow. Hm, we fix."
Azazel clenched his jaw, standing nearly an hour naked under the lantern light, resisting the urge to bolt.
Next came the clothing trials — endless fabrics pressed against his skin, rough sketches of coats, gloves, boots. All the while Julien chattered, his voice rising with pride:
"Do you know, it was I who introduced the signature hats of the hunters? Black coats too — streamlined, weatherproof, cut for both elegance and combat. Before me, they looked like peasants with blades. But I—" He puffed his chest, snapping his scissors for emphasis. "I brought style to the Order of Ash."
Azazel suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of his cheek.
Julien leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he trimmed a seam.
"I even worked with Johann Weyer once. A legend, oui, oui. His coat was my masterpiece."
Azazel's eye twitched, but he said nothing, stifling the chuckle clawing at his throat.
Hours passed. Procedures blurred together: tonics rubbed into his skin, straps adjusted, gloves fitted, boots tested. All the while Julien circled like a hawk, muttering, praising, criticizing, demanding.
Finally, long after dusk, Azazel stepped out of the chamber. His body ached from standing still so long. Julien looked exhausted but radiated satisfaction, like an artist finishing a masterpiece.
"Magnifique…" Julien whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. "This, my dear boy, was worth every drop of genius."
Then he named his price.
Azazel's jaw nearly struck the floor. "Didn't you put too much zeroes there? That much?! For—hair? And…clothes?!"
Julien sniffed, offended.
The air shifted as the door swung open. Heavy boots thudded against the floor.
A broad silhouette filled the entrance — the Grandmaster himself. His dark coat rippled in the lantern light, his presence alone enough to silence the entire shop.
"Don't worry," Aurelius said with a faint grin. "It's on me."
Julien bowed so low it was a miracle his scissors didn't spill from his belt:
"Grandmaster!"
Azazel, still stiff and uneasy in his transformed appearance, glanced away, hiding his expression in the shadows.