"Go on," Aurelius said with a sly grin, gesturing toward the tall bronze mirror in Julien's chamber. "Take a look."
Azazel stepped forward hesitantly. For a heartbeat, he thought perhaps nothing had changed — that the endless hours under Julien's hands were all just for show.
Then he froze.
The reflection staring back was not the Azazel he knew. His bronze-touched skin had grown pale, smoothed almost unnaturally into a lighter shade that reflected the lanterns. His hair — once raven-black — had turned into a strange silver-gray, strands glimmering like molten ash. There wasn't a trace left of the boy with crow-feather locks.
Only his eyes remained: amber, burning bright as ever.
Azazel flushed, his chest tightening. "What… what is this…?"
Behind him, Aurelius chuckled, his silver beard shaking with mirth.
"Now you look almost like me in my youth. Except for those eyes." He tapped the cane in his hand. "They'll give you away every time."
Azazel swallowed hard, embarrassed by the uncanny stranger in the mirror. The memory of his grandfather dragging him through Constantinople's markets flashed in his mind — Azazel fussing at new school clothes while Johann pretended not to notice his sulking. For the first time in months, he felt like that boy again, unmoored in his own skin.
Julien clapped, nearly in tears from pride. "Magnifique! A man reborn! You are art, mon cher!"
Azazel tugged at the new attire. At least the clothes felt right. Practical, though formal: a fitted dark coat reinforced at the shoulders for combat, high boots strapped tight, gloves stitched with subtle silver runes. A shirt of muted gray rested beneath the coat, with a layered vest that allowed both movement and dignity. Even his belt was arranged for balance — one side had holsters for tools, bottles and equipment.
He looked less like a raw student and more like a hunter prepared to stand among legends.
Aurelius laughed again. "A fine disguise, but not enough. He'd still know your face."
From beneath his cloak, the Grandmaster produced a mask — simple, yet sharp. Black steel curved into clean lines, covering nose and mouth while leaving everything higher than the eyes, free. It was not grotesque or theatrical, but cold, efficient, faceless.
Then, as if an afterthought, Aurelius pulled out a leather holster carrying two daggers. Their edges were dulled by time, but their state was still not far from perfect.
"These… I once carried myself," Aurelius said softly. "A relic of my younger days. They'll serve you better now."
Azazel slid the holster across his chest, feeling the weight settle into him. The daggers hummed faintly, like echoes of old battles.
Finally, he raised the mask to his face. It fit as though it had been waiting for him all along.
The reflection in the mirror no longer showed a confused boy, but a hunter cloaked in shadow — pale, silver-haired, amber-eyed, faceless.
Aurelius gave a satisfied nod.
"Now you are ready for supper with the High Table of the Order."
Azazel exhaled, steadying himself. Whatever awaited him among the highest of hunters, he was no longer entering as Johann Weyer's grandson, but as someone reborn.