The streets of Constantinople had long since gone quiet when Azazel approached the Church of Saint Eleutherios, its ancient facade cloaked in shadows and ivy. He slipped inside under the cover of night, the heavy wooden doors creaking open into the dim sanctuary.
No one prayed there. Not anymore.
He lit a small lantern and made his way toward the pulpit.
There was a priest standing half-asleep.
As Azazel approached, he jumped a little and rubbed his sleepy eyes.
"Um, excuse me, the church service is over," priest had a hoarse voice, "We have prayer and worship session in the morning…"
Azazel came closer and said one sentence.
"Ce monde n'est ni juste ni clair,
Mais nous marchons sans lumière."
The priest's face changed, his eyes now fully sober and awake.
He cleared his throat and turned.
Just behind the pulpit, beneath a worn tapestry of Saint Michael, he found the stone slab. With a grunt, priest pushed it aside, revealing a winding stairwell that spiraled into the earth.
The priest looked less strong than he is. Azazel even made a mental note to never underestimate abilities of others.
"You may go," the priest smiled, pointing the way with his hand.
The scent changed immediately—damp stone, oil, sweat, and something else… musk, and faint incense.
Then he heard a rather loud dull sound of the stone moving back.
Azazel descended.
At the bottom, a vast underground marketplace sprawled before him, lit with flickering lanterns, arcane symbols glowing on stone walls, and crowded stalls huddled between archways. The air buzzed with hushed deals and low mutters.
Weapons. Tomes. Relics.
He froze.
Was there a connection to the tunnels below his home? The thought stuck like a barb in his mind. He glanced around at the pathways branching off like veins in stone, wondering.
Before he could finish the thought, a rough shoulder slammed into him. He stumbled.
"Watch it, brat!" a man barked, dressed in travel-worn leather, his cloak stained and eyes wild. He stormed past without a second glance.
Azazel clenched his jaw but let it go.
He moved forward, weaving through the maze of voices and artifacts. He was looking for Basil, but then it hit him—
Basil never told him where to meet.
And it was only Friday night.
Did he really have to wait another week?
Frustrated, Azazel approached a nearby stall—the scent of herbs and rusted iron strong in the air. The vendor, a man with a thick mustache curled like a crescent, looked up and squinted.
"New face," the vendor said. "Hunter?"
Azazel gave a lopsided shrug. "Of sort."
The vendor grinned. "Well then, I've got everything for your sort. Scales of mermaid—actual siren, not the fake sea hag kind. Powdered ghost dust—dissolves hexes, you know. Ah! And this—"
He pulled out a small vial filled with silvery ash. "Ashes of a real hunter. Died in battle. I swear by Saint Thecla herself."
He leaned forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Name was—"
"I'm not here to shop," Azazel interrupted. "I'm looking for something else. A ring. A place to train. Fight."
The seller narrowed his eyes, then nodded slowly. "Ah. Looking to bleed, are you?"
Azazel nodded.
The man looked around, twirling his mustache with a finger.
"Ask for The Iron Latch," he said. "Follow the yellow banners. But careful—no rules down there. Just reputation."
If he couldn't find Basil tonight, maybe the ring would give him something close to clarity.
Or at least something to hit.