When Azazel returned to the abbey, the weight of exhaustion pressed on his shoulders. He guided Juan down to the cellar, asking him to carry his belt with the bag and daggers. Then, without pause, he climbed the stairs and knocked on the Grandmaster's door.
"Enter," came the calm, commanding voice.
Inside, Aurelius sat at his heavy oak desk, stacks of parchment and ledgers surrounding him. Rectangular spectacles rested low on his nose as he carefully examined a set of documents. When his eyes rose and caught Azazel's ragged appearance, a knowing look flickered across his face.
"Judging by that soiled coat and those tired eyes… you've only just returned from the mission."
Azazel nodded. "Yes, Grandmaster. I thought it best to report to you directly." He recounted everything—the cursed abbey, the horde of monks, the altar, and most importantly, the sudden appearance of Kimaris.
The Grandmaster's expression hardened. He leaned back slowly, folding his hands before his face, silent for several breaths. Then, gravely, he spoke:
"You did well to return alive. Go and rest, Lucien, my disciple. Leave the rest to me."
Azazel bowed his head, the answer leaving no room for debate, and withdrew.
The next morning, the team gathered once more in the square.
Juan noticed that Azazel was somewhat concerned and behaved strangely since night. He reacted sharply at everything that had red. Especially gloves.
"Aza… Lucien you're scaring people, all good?"
Azazel cleared his throat.
"Yeah, sorry, had a bad dream."
When they met their teammates – Matteo and Ino the first thing Azazel did was examine if any of them wore gloves.
"Is something wrong with me?"
Juan chuckled.
"Nah, don't mind him, he's like that since morning."
Sunlight spilled across the Basilica's steps, glinting off the grand scoreboard. Their eyes scanned upward, hearts thumping—Team 27 had climbed to second place.
There were still eleven days left until the end of the second trial. To follow their plan, they would need to complete two more four-flame missions. The pressure was palpable, but so was the fire in their resolve.
They made their way to the Wardens' pavilion. A strange commotion buzzed through the camp. Other teams stood clustered in uneasy groups, murmuring. When Lucien asked what was happening, one of the young hunters whispered:
"An uproar since dawn. The Wardens held an emergency council through the night. They only just returned."
Before he could ask more, a pale figure stepped into view. Isabella.
She looked like a ghost—her skin ashen, her shoulders trembling, her expression hollow. Her voice was steady but heavy with fatigue:
"Are you certain you want another four-flame mission so soon?"
Lucien and the others exchanged glances. Then, chuckling, they nodded. "We're sure."
From behind her, a hand came to rest on her shoulder.
"Enough," said a familiar voice.
The Grandmaster. He stood tall, his presence casting a long shadow.
"Go rest, Isabella," he ordered gently but firmly.
She blinked in confusion. "But… I'm supposed to oversee Team 27."
"You will not," Aurelian replied. "I will accompany them myself. You've done more than enough. After the emergency council last night, I saw you nearly fall asleep on your feet."
His words left no room for protest. Isabella hesitated, then lowered her gaze, torn between pride and exhaustion. The Grandmaster's hand remained steady on her shoulder until, at last, she gave a reluctant nod.