The Brimstone Barrel was half-lit, flickering lanterns casting shadows across the wooden walls. The usual Thursday haze filled the air—drunken voices, clinking mugs, the warm scent of ale and smoke. Azazel walked in, waitresses and bartender bowed to the young owner, his footsteps slow, practiced. His face calm, though his heart beat like a war drum beneath his coat.
He spotted Basil in his usual corner booth—alone for once. His cloak was draped over one shoulder, and his eyes were already fixed on Azazel before he even approached.
"Evening," Basil greeted, voice rough with age and suspicion.
Azazel sat down. No hesitation. He looked the man straight in the eye.
"So why are you here today..?"
Basil's mouth stopped moving.
"What happened to your hand?"
Azazel's hand was now fully bandaged.
But Azazel had a prepared explanation for it.
"A series of failures. First, Hypathia cut it. And then fire divination screwed up and the fire almost burned the ceiling of the storage room."
Basil scoffed.
"That's a gut for Johann's little."
Waiter came up to them.
"Sir…"
"Please two glasses of Wine of the Negev"
Basil looked at Azazel in confusion.
Azazel noticed a micro movement how Basil licked lips as he said the name of the wine.
"Azazel?"
"Ino and Hypathia with you and Margaret are leaving on a mission for the Order?" It was more like a statement than a question.
Basil's fingers froze on his mug, he gulped it once.
"…Who told you that?" he asked, guarded.
"In the next few days I'll be stuck studying. I've been neglecting learning lately."
Azazel shrugged, feigning sheepishness. "Ino mentioned it during sparring. Said it's some kind of long-term assignment. Four months, maybe more."
There was a long pause.
Azazel could almost hear the gears turning in Basil's head. He knows. He's planning something.
But before suspicion could take root, Azazel gave a small, practiced smile. "So I decided I should thank you before you leave."
Basil blinked.
"I don't want to say goodbye to you and Ino… and Hypathia, miss Margaret in person because it would be very embarrassing if I end up crying, wouldn't it?"
The waiter brought two glasses of red wine. It's heady smell entered Azazel's nostrils, he restrained himself from grimacing.
"I really want to go with you, but…"
Azazel leaned in slightly, lifting the glass. "I know I'm not ready. They explained it all to me. The danger. The responsibility. I'm still green."
He took a sip, his brow and nose twitched from the taste of alcohol.
"I wouldn't give the pleasure to demons of embarrassing my grandpa. Give me those four months, and I'll be twice the fighter I am now. I'll catch up. You have my word."
Basil took the glass of wine that waiter enticingly left near his right arm.
His shoulders relaxed. Though, the deep furrow in his brow didn't ease.
For a long breath, he just stared at Azazel—studying him. He also took a glass to his lips, ending it in one go.
Azazel raised his hand, signaling the waiter to bring one more.
Then, slowly, Basil reached down under the table and lifted a black leather case. Heavy. Familiar. Timeworn and locked with brass.
Azazel's throat clenched, this time his hand froze mid-air.
The case. The same case his grandfather took on every mission. The one that he saw in his divination.
His eyes widened. He tried to hide it, but Basil noticed. For a second, doubt flickered again behind his eyes.
Azazel forced his face into something softer—nostalgic. His hand reached up to wipe at the corner of his eye.
"I just— I didn't expect to see that again."
The tears came easily. They weren't fake.
He really had missed that old bastard.
Azazel finished his glass of wine and asked the waiter who conveniently approached with a full bottle of Negev.
Basil gave a sigh of relief, voice gentler now. "He always carried it. I thought… well, it belongs to you now."
Waiter opened a bottle of wine and poured some in two empty glasses.
Azazel nodded silently, taking the case with both hands like it was a relic.
Inside, he knew, were the wheel-lock pistols forged by Winchester. Johann's signature weapons. Instruments of death, tools of justice, and now—his inheritance.
"A reward," Basil said. "For the hard work you've done. He would've wanted you to have them. Just… don't blow your hands off, alright?"
Azazel let out a shaky laugh. "I'll try."
They clinked glasses full of wine.
Basil nodded. "Get strong, Azazel. When we come back..."
Azazel gave one last, long nod.
"Four months," he said softly, "I'll show to you!"
Less than four hours, he thought. That's all I need.
As Azazel finished drinking he felt that his mind was slipping away from him.
What's happening?
Did that old friend of my grandpa notice something?
Did he poison me?
Little did he know that he had a very weak alcohol tolerance.