Azazel tilted his head ever so slightly at Hypathia's provocation.
Then he noticed that she wore an elegant red glove on her hand.
All of his insides twisted.
Behind the mask, he smiled—not the smile of someone cornered, but of someone who'd already decided how this conversation would end.
"My dear Hypathia," he said in that calm, velvety tone Lucien was known for, "when someone waves a red cloth before a bull, the bull charges. But when you wave it before a hunter…" He let the silence linger for a heartbeat, "…the hunter wonders why you thought such a trick would work in the first place."
Her smirk faltered just slightly.
Azazel bowed with a mocking courtesy. "I admire your spirit, truly. But your tricks don't quite fit me. Better save them for someone who needs to prove themselves."
Before she could find a retort, he was already striding to the door.
He made one last look at her red glove.
"And you — stay away from our team."
As he passed Juan, he clapped him lightly on the shoulder and whispered just loud enough:
"We'll talk later—at home."
Then he was gone, leaving Hypathia with her pride pricked and Juan staring after him, looking like a boy who'd been caught between two storms.
The cool air of the cellar wrapped around him as he returned to his and Juan's residence. Azazel peeled off his shirt, finally relishing the idea of sleep—until a figure stirred in the shadows.
"Sister Iris!" he nearly jumped out of his skin.
She stood half-veiled in darkness, her pale face catching just enough light to look ghostly. "Oh, I was beginning to wonder if you'd undress fully before noticing me," she said, her tone deadpan but laced with mischief.
Azazel froze, half-naked, the mask dangling in his hand. "By all that's holy—do you practice scaring people like a ghoul?"
Iris stepped forward, unbothered. "You've been gone all day. The Grandmaster's been searching for you everywhere. Where have you been?"
Muttering under his breath, Azazel hurriedly yanked his shirt back on, fastening his belt with clumsy fingers. "Training. You know… the usual."
He stormed off toward the Grandmaster's chamber, mask back in place.
The Grandmaster was, as always, waiting at his desk, stacks of parchment illuminated by candlelight. He looked up through his square spectacles, eyes narrowing at Azazel's disheveled state.
"Lucien," he said, "tomorrow is the official reception of the Church. Which means your… presentation must be refined."
Azazel groaned internally.
"Julien will arrive in the morning," Aurelius continued smoothly. "He'll touch up your hair, adjust your attire—prepare you properly for what awaits. Consider it non-negotiable."
Azazel muttered something that sounded like assent.
"Good," the Grandmaster said, pushing a small glass vial across the table. "Drink this. It will ease your nerves and let you sleep. Tomorrow is important."
Azazel pulled the cork. The smell hit him like rotten herbs mixed with the faint notes of mint. He swallowed hard, then downed it in one go. His stomach lurched, the urge to retch nearly overpowering—but he clamped his jaw shut and forced it down.
If not for him barely having any meal today, he'd throw up for sure.
He bowed stiffly and turned to leave.
"Oh, and one more thing," the Grandmaster added casually.
Azazel paused.
"Please, for the love of all decency… bathe. You stink of sweat and grass."
Azazel blinked, sniffed beneath his arm—and grimaced.
"Oh," he muttered, "right."