They escorted Isabella to the carriage waiting outside the abbey walls. She was pale but composed, her steps heavy as though each one dragged on her strength. Before climbing inside, she tore a silver pendant from her neck and pressed it into Azazel's palm.
"If danger overwhelms you, break this," she said. "The holy light will shield you. But hear me—if you believe the risk too great, you may abandon the mission. In that case, however, I'll have to mark it as failed. You won't just lose your four flames—you'll forfeit four more."
Juan's brows knitted, his voice sharp with frustration.
"Seriously? How is that our fault? A demon showed up out of nowhere, and now we have to clean up the mess by ourselves?"
Isabella's gaze sharpened, her tone cutting through his complaints like steel.
"In a real battle, there will be no one to shield you. No Isabella. No miracle rescue. You must get used to that. You are the hope of the next generation—do not grow complacent."
The weight of her words silenced them. A few grumbles lingered, but in the end, they nodded. Duty was duty.
As soon as they turned away, however, a muffled sound drifted from the carriage—soft, steady snoring. The group exchanged looks, and laughter broke the tension. "Our mighty Warden…" Juan muttered under his breath, and even Ino cracked a rare smile.
Looks like when Lucien was on sick leave, Juan and Isabella finally resolved the knot of quarrel between them.
By the time they returned to the abbey, silence had taken full hold once more. The monks stood frozen where they had been left—rows of motionless figures in Christian vestments. But now, the demonic iron masks twisted their features into grotesque parodies of devotion. The sight unsettled them all, every step forward scraping nerves raw.
"Creepy bastards…" Matteo whispered, his hand never straying far from the string of his bow.
Azazel took the lead. He knew the way, guided both by memory and the weight in his chest that tugged him back to the place where he had felt the curse strongest. They passed through narrow corridors lined with statuesque monks, their eyes hidden behind blackened iron. The air grew colder, heavier.
Finally, they found it—the locked door barred from the inside(by Azazel himself). Near it, a stone staircase spiraled downward, vanishing into the suffocating dark below.
Azazel's hand tightened on the pendant Isabella had given him.
"This is it," he said, his voice low but steady. "The heart of the curse is down there."
The team exchanged glances—fear, determination, and grim resolve mirrored in each pair of eyes. And then, without another word, they descended.