The evening fell golden over the abbey's garden. Lanterns hung from carved wooden posts, and braziers burned with steady light to keep the chill away. Servants hurried in every direction, laying out platters of roasted game, fruits, and delicate breads. At the garden's heart stretched a long, gleaming table, large enough to seat more than two dozen.
Here gathered the Order's highest — the heads of branches from the greatest cities of the world. From London and Paris to Venice, Krakow, Vienna, Constantinople, and beyond, each Warden had come. Smaller cities had no branches worthy of such honor, but tonight the garden carried the weight of Order itself.
They spoke softly at first, sharing stories, lamenting the absence of one man. Johann Weyer — who had withdrawn from public life more than a decade ago. Some remembered him with awe, others with regret, but all with respect.
Then the voices fell silent.
From the garden's edge came the Grandmaster, Aurelius de Chartres, clad in his black hunter's coat. At his side walked a strange young man with silver-gray hair and a mask that hid his face to the eyes, and a second youth with Iberian features — Juan Barbosa.
The leaders rose as one, bowing slightly, honoring the man at the Order's helm. Aurelius did not hurry. He took his seat at the head of the table, while the masked figure settled just beside him, and Juan across, in the places already prepared for them.
With measured grace, the Grandmaster lifted his goblet of deep red wine.
"Brothers. Sisters. Tonight we drink not only to our fellowship, but to history itself. For the Vatican has opened its gates to us again— to the true initiation of the young hunters beneath its patronage."
The goblets rose, the toast echoed in a murmur of conviction. Then they drank, and the feast began.
The first course — a rich soup of venison and herbs — came and went. Conversation returned in a current of laughter, half-somber tales, and memories of campaigns long past.
But soon, the Warden of the Beijing branch, a man of wiry frame and quick eyes, leaned forward. His voice was sharp, yet curious.
"And tell us, Grandmaster — who is this guest at your side? The one with the mask."
Aurelius did not flinch. He turned, laying a hand lightly on Azazel's shoulder.
"This," he declared, "is my apprentice."
Murmurs stirred along the table. Some frowned, others nodded with cautious respect.
"And here," Aurelius continued, gesturing across to Juan, "sits Juan Barbosa — student of Bartolomeu de Dias, the finest mariner and hunter of his age."
Polite applause rippled across the table, goblets raised.
Not missing the moment, Aurelius lifted his own cup once more, his voice ringing with deliberate force.
"Then let us drink again! To the new generation. My pupil — and the pupil of Bartolomeu. May their blood and courage carry us into the future!"
The heads of the Order rose their glasses again, voices blending with the firelight and the night.
Azazel, hidden behind the mask, clenched his goblet a little too tight. He could feel every eye upon him.