It had been only two days before the banquet when Azazel sat cross-legged in the cellar, the Codex of Hunters spread before him like a silent judge. The flicker of candlelight painted the parchment with restless shadows.
The memory of the demon's sudden appearance during their mission still gnawed at him. Its timing, its knowledge of their movements—it had been too perfect, too deliberate.
So that night, he decided to risk a dream divination.
He whispered the opening verses, fingers pressed to the Codex's inked symbols, until the words blurred and the heaviness of sleep pulled him under.
The dream was mist. Endless, choking mist. Shapes moved within it, faint and impossible to catch. He tried to focus, to demand clarity, but the fog thickened, swallowing even the sound of his own voice.
And then—
A flash of crimson.
Hands gloved in red, motionless yet commanding the entire dreamscape. They didn't move toward him, but their mere presence crushed his chest with unease.
He reached out—
And the vision shattered.
Azazel gasped awake, sweat beading across his forehead. "Failed," he muttered, slamming the Codex shut. "It didn't work. It was useless."
A calm, familiar voice echoed in his mind.
[Not useless, grandson. Merely… blurred]
Azazel looked up. The spectral image of his grandfather hovered faintly, lips curled in a knowing smile.
"Blurry?" Azazel frowned. "All I saw was fog. And those damn red gloves. Nothing else."
[And what did you expect?]
The old man chuckled.
[This banquet of yours—world leaders, heads of the Churches, relics older than kingdoms. Every wall of that palace breathes with antidivination. Even the stones know how to hide their secrets. Did you think a boy's prayer could pierce that shield?]
Azazel grit his teeth. "But still, it should've shown me something. Something useful."
The old man's gaze softened. [You're forgetting the nature of divination. It is never direct. It speaks in symbols, in hints. If you see a tree in vision, does it mean safety in shade… or the apple falling on your skull… or lightning striking its crown? The answer is both everything and nothing—until the moment comes.]
Azazel sank back against the wall. "So… my seeing red gloves…"
[Means danger, yes] the old man admitted.
[But what form that danger takes—only time will tell. You are not yet skilled enough to read subtleties. Do not blame yourself. Divination is like fog. You may catch a shape one night and realize years later what it meant.]
The words cut deep. Azazel clenched his fist. He had divined the pistols. He had even located his grandfather's ashes. Clear, precise visions. Why not now?
As if hearing his thoughts, the old man added gently: [Because those were simple searches. A thing lost, a thing found. But the future, my boy, is not a coin to be picked from the street. It is a storm. And you… you are still learning to walk in rain.]
Azazel blew out the candle.
[That's why divination is not very popular among European hunters. We lack experts in divination interpreting.]