The round table fell into stunned silence. For a heartbeat, even the rustling of silks and the scratching of quills ceased.
The Pope's fingers tightened on his chair. "Impossible… after Johann Weyer's brilliant campaigns, after he crushed the Dukes and Marquises—after a King of Hell himself fell—surely the nightmare ended."
The Patriarch shook his head slowly. "We have heard whispers, but whispers are not truth. Do you mean to tell us that once more the higher demons stir?"
Aurelius inclined his head. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it pressed like iron.
"They do. But not as before. The lesser ones still plague the shadows. Yet since the fall of the Dukes and their ilk, no great lord had stepped into daylight… until now. Kimaris shattered that silence."
Murmurs rippled like a wave.
The Grandmaster's masked gaze swept the table.
"Do not think we were idle. Secret squads of Wardens were dispatched into the deepest chasms, the farthest wilds. Most found nothing. Yet two missions…" He paused. "Two changed everything."
"Tell us," Julius urged.
"The first fled, half-crippled, confirming the presence of Crocell, a fallen angel of the Church turned Marquis of Hell. The Warden of Bristol left his arm in that abyss."
A sharp intake of breath. Even Luther, skeptical and sharp-tongued, paled.
"The second squad," Aurelius continued, "never returned. Not a body, not a prayer." His words sank like stones into the chamber.
Maximilian leaned forward, eyes narrow. "And you believe…?"
"That among us—among the high ranks of Church and Order—there hides betrayal," Aurelius said flatly. "Else how could the demons know about the missions chosen to test the initiation trials examinees?"
The table fell cold.
At last, Aurelius placed both palms on the wood, voice rising, striking each syllable like a hammer:
"I will send one more team. But we cannot stand alone. The aid of saints, crusaders, and the blessings of all churches must stand with us. Or—" His voice cut, low as a growl. "—or else you would rather welcome a second Black Death?"
The silence screamed louder than any argument. No one dared answer.
The scene shifted, back in the glittering grand hall of the palace.
Azazel, draped in white suit and masked by the silver-threaded relic of Saint Cyprian, found himself ringed by nobles and courtiers. Golden chandeliers blazed overhead, while fountains of wine shimmered red in their cups.
"Tell us, good sir," pressed a duke with a heavy chain of office, "is it true that your Order still hunts demons? Surely such tales are embellishments for children."
"Demons?" a Spanish noblewoman scoffed, fanning herself. "Nothing but allegory, I say. Metaphors for sin."
"But I heard," whispered a Florentine merchant, eyes darting nervously, "that in France an entire abbey was silenced overnight. Is it true?"
Questions pressed in from every direction, a chorus of doubt, curiosity, and hidden fear. Their jeweled gazes pierced him.
Azazel's gloved fingers twitched against the goblet he still held. He had not touched its wine—curse this mask, curse his hunger, curse his thirst. He excused himself softly, stepping back.
He was looking for the man with red gloves. His heart squeezed tight.
But before he could follow, the man melted into darkness, leaving nothing but the echo of his presence.