The bells of the basilica tolled noon as the group stepped onto the sun-bleached square. The crowd of hunters and onlookers bustled about the mission boards, but Azazel's eyes were drawn to his companions.
He saw it instantly—dark rings beneath their eyes, the way their shoulders sagged, how even Ino's sharp posture faltered. Weeks of near-constant assignments had carved fatigue into their bones.
"Are you all right?" Azazel asked, voice low.
"We're fine," Matteo said quickly.
"Better than fine," Juan added, though he covered a yawn with his hand.
Ino only grunted, as if to wave away the concern.
Azazel narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Instead, he looked up at the massive task board now cluttered with scraps of parchment. The smaller ones—the easy missions—were gone. Only larger, darker slips remained.
"There are no more one-flame tasks," Azazel murmured. "Mostly twos. About fifteen threes. Sixteen with four flames."
Juan whistled. "No more baby hunts."
Matteo frowned. "Four flames means three days for one mission at least. Maybe four."
Azazel folded his arms. "Then we'll take a four."
They all turned to him.
"Four?" Ino asked.
"Yes," Azazel said evenly. "If we want to close the gap, we don't waste time. Three completed fours will put us ahead."
Ino nodded after a moment. "It's risky. But he's right. Three fours will do it. We don't need all four—three is enough for a clean lead."
A quiet agreement passed between them. Fatigue lingered, but so did ambition.
"Then let's decide," Matteo said. "Better to aim high than crawl forward."
They moved together, pulling down a slip marked with four burning symbols. The parchment was thick, wax-sealed, the weight of it heavier than any one-flame job Azazel had seen.
The group crossed the square to the Wardens' tent, a heavy pavilion draped in banners of crimson and black. Inside, the air smelled of parchment, leather, and steel polish.
Behind a table, Isabella sat reviewing reports. Her dark eyes flicked up the instant they entered.
"Well, well," she said smoothly. "So the masked boy returns. How's the ribcage?"
Azazel inclined his head. "Mended."
Her gaze drifted to the parchment in his hand. When she saw the four flames etched across its face, her lips curved into something between amusement and warning.
"No easy roads for you, hm?" she said, voice sharp as glass. "Good. Let's see if you can walk the hardest ones without breaking."