For two long weeks, Azazel was trapped in the infirmary.
The medics, strict and unyielding, forbade him from setting a single foot outside the white-walled hall. They pressed bitter draughts to his lips, wrapped his ribs with bandages steeped in rare herbs, and poured concoctions brewed for hunters alone—elixirs that knit wounds faster, but burned on the way down.
Even so, they warned him: push yourself too hard, and the injury will tear open again.
So he waited.
His team carried on without him. While he lay among the scent of bloodwort and vinegar, they gathered flames:
Twelve tasks of one flame—simple but tedious. Purging ghouls haunting the catacombs beneath Rome, bring this or that to someone, cleansing wells poisoned by wraiths(or maybe not), escorting pilgrims across cursed roads.
Five tasks of two flames—trickier work. Tracking a pack of strzygas across the marshes, silencing a restless banshee whose scream had toppled chapel windows, subduing a gargoyle that had broken free of its post atop the old basilica.
One task of three flames—the hunt for the Fire Mare of Naples, a beast wreathed in living flame. They succeeded, though only after Isabella herself stepped in to keep the city from burning.
But not all missions ended in triumph.
They failed one—the three-flame trial of the drowned revenant in Venice. Its spectral chains dragged Matteo under, and though Juan cut him free, the group was forced to retreat. The revenant still haunted the canal, and their flame was lost.
Azazel heard all this in fragments from visiting wardens, from nurses whispering news, from the occasional letter smuggled in by Sister Iris. His ribs healed slowly, but his mind never stopped.
He devoured the journal of his grandfather, tracing notes about unclean spirits, infernal sigils, and the art of dream divination from the classics of Confucius. At night, he tried it—sitting still, half-conscious, letting visions bleed into his dreams. Sometimes he saw only shadows. Other times… hints of the Devil's movement, flickers of battles long gone.
At last, the day came. The bandages came off. His body still ached with every breath, but the medics relented.
"You are cleared," they said, "but do not strain yourself—or the bone will betray you."
Azazel slipped his mask back on. By now, it felt natural, almost part of his skin.
He returned to the training hangar, the familiar smell of sweat, steel, and chalk dust greeting him. Inside, his teammates were deep in a heated argument—hands waving, voices raised.
"—I told you the banshee counted as two flames—"
"—nonsense it was just one,so should we file a complaint—"
"—oh shut up, Matteo, it nearly burst my ears—"
The moment they noticed him, the quarrel died.
"Lucien!" Matteo grinned wide.
"Finally, you're back," Ino said flatly, though his eyes betrayed relief.
Juan raised his arms theatrically. "About time. We thought you'd decided to die of boredom!"
Azazel laughed softly.
"Close. I nearly did. If I had to read another treatise on water-spirits, I would've begged the Devil to drag me out."
They laughed, and the tension broke.
"So," Azazel said, folding his arms, "bring me up to speed."
Juan leaned forward. "We've tallied twenty-six flames. That puts us in third place."
Matteo lifted two fingers. "The gap is four flames—between us and first."
Azazel exhaled, the weight of it sinking in. They weren't far. One good strike, two-three perfect missions, and they could overtake everyone.
His ribs still ached, but his blood ran hotter.
There are still less than two weeks left.
"Then," he said quietly, "It's time to close the gap."