The Charles de Gaulle Airport buzzed with the chaos of global transit — loudspeaker announcements in clipped French, the hum of trolley wheels, the hiss of espresso machines. A child cried in the distance. Somewhere, a group of tourists laughed too loudly.
Ramiel stepped through the sliding glass doors, dressed now in black boots, fitted dark jeans, a long charcoal trench coat over a simple t-shirt. A pair of round black shades shielded his eyes, though not from the sun, but from the questions they raised.
Alec, beside him, looked excited. And tired. "So this is Paris?"
"No," Ramiel said without missing a step. "This is a terminal. Paris breathes at night."
They passed through customs with forged documents — courtesy of Vladmir's network. A black car waited for them outside.
As the city opened up before them, Paris was a haze of neon and fog. The moon dipped behind low-hanging clouds. Music pulsed in the distance.
Ramiel tapped the address into his phone. The car pulled up in front of NOCTEM, a nightclub. It had stained glass windows lined with LED strips and gargoyles that moved — watched.
"Stay close," Ramiel told Alec.
Inside, the nightclub was shadow and strobes. Deep bass reverberated in the ribs. Bodies moved in rhythmic abandon. Every movement sinful to the core. Smoke coiled through lights like ghostly silk. The bartender's tattoos shifted when he smiled.
She was on the balcony above, in a tailored obsidian suit, long hair twisted into braids threaded with silver. Maelya.
The Shaaman.
Ramiel moved through the crowd like mist. Maelya noticed — of course she did. She gestured for him to come up.
In the upper lounge, the music dimmed. She lit incense from a strange brazier — the smoke moved counter to the wind.
"So," she said, "a Djinn walks into my club. I was beginning to think you weren't real."
"You have something you shouldn't," Ramiel replied.
She raised a brow. "I own many things I shouldn't."
"Djinn memory. You were gifted it — by a demon."
Her smirk faltered. "Took you long enough to trace it."
He stepped closer. "The name. Say it."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she poured dark liquid into a crystal glass.
"Ash'Zuriel," she said quietly. "The First. He lit the First Star. They say even Lucifer spoke his name with awe."
Ramiel inhaled sharply. He knew the name. He was one of the elders- more than an angel- that helped Elyon in creation.
"His temple still sleeps," she continued. "Beneath the sands of Egypt. I traded my ruby for the memory from a demon who didn't know it's worth"
Ramiel's voice dropped. "You're telling me to connect with a ghost. Ash'Zuriel vanished from existence after creation. He was one of the elder gods, only Djinn by stance"
"I'm telling you to remember what your kind truly were."
Ramiel looked away. "What do you want in return?"
She stepped forward, eyes fierce now. "A memory. One of your choosing. Something... precious."
He hesitated. Then raised a hand to her forehead. A glow passed between them — a memory, fragile, glittering with ancient sorrow.
Maelya staggered back.
"My gods..." she whispered. "That... was love."
A shot shattered the stained glass behind her.
Blood.
She collapsed into Ramiel's arms, breath hitching.
From the balcony window, hunters in black tactical gear had breached the club — Bloodhound Crest insignia glowing red.
Alec ducked, drawing a small dagger from his boot. The Shaaman's guards — beings touched with ritual and experience— surged forward, weapons drawn.
"Go!" one of them shouted.
Ramiel caught Alec's wrist and pulled him toward the spiral stairs, even as more bullets shredded the air. Music turned to chaos. Screams. Bodies moved — now fleeing, now dying.
Ramiel glanced back.
Maelya was being carried upstairs by her guards why the shadow hunters of the Bloodhound Crest closed in.
And now... a path to Ash'Zuriel.
Egypt.
And answers.