That night, Azazel dreamed of fire and shadow.
He stood in the middle of a burning cathedral, flames licking the marble pillars, while shadows whispered his name from every corner. The ceiling collapsed in embers, and out of the smoke stepped Aurelius.
The Grandmaster's figure did not burn. Instead, he reached through the inferno and spoke calmly:
"Wake up, Lucien. It's time."
Azazel's eyes shot open. His body was soaked in cold sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs as if it wanted to escape. He glanced to the side—Juan was still asleep, breathing peacefully.
A bitter taste filled Azazel's mouth. He was still angry—angry that Juan had hidden his relationship, angry that his friend had found the time to smile with someone else while Azazel bled, trained, and carried secrets too heavy to speak aloud.
He dressed quickly, fastening the belt of his tunic with sharp movements, and left the underground dormitory.
The morning air in the Vatican gardens was crisp, scented faintly with dew and cypress. Ahead, a crowd had gathered: servants, assistants, and a small canopy tent raised among the trimmed hedges. Azazel walked, his steps echoing lightly on the stone path—until a sudden whisper brushed his ear.
"Going somewhere, little owl?"
He nearly leapt out of his boots. Turning sharply, he saw Sister Iris gliding out of the shadows like a phantom, her pale hands clasped behind her back.
"By the saints—stop doing that!" Azazel hissed.
She only tilted her head, expression unreadable. "The Grandmaster told me to bring you to the garden. This way."
Beneath the canopy stood Julien, flamboyant as ever. He greeted them with a flourish, his scarf trailing dramatically, and winked at Lucien before casting an exaggerated bow toward Iris.
"Ah, mon cher chasseur," he said, spreading his arms, "it is my supreme honor that my art will grace the face of our Order at the reception of the Churches. Imagine it—bishops, cardinals, nobles, and diplomats, all gasping at my masterpiece. Oh, and you too, Lucien."
Azazel groaned inwardly.
Then Aurelius entered. He wore a tailored black coat embroidered with discreet silver thread, a high collar trimmed with velvet, and a cross at his breast. A scholar's spectacles perched on his nose, yet the aura of command clung to him like armor. He looked like both statesman and warrior—an unusual, arresting mix.
Azazel blinked, momentarily forgetting himself. The man looked… regal. Strange, but regal.
Aurelius caught his stare. "Don't just stand there gawking. Julien, see to our sleepyhead. We depart in three hours."
Julien was already in motion. He pressed Azazel into a chair, slathering his hair with a shimmering substance that deepened the silver-gray into a richer, metallic sheen. He dusted powder across his skin, muttering about "perfect undertones" and "balance with the mask."
"Why makeup?" Azazel muttered under his breath. "I'll be wearing a mask anyway."
Julien gasped, hand to chest. "Because, mon petit nuage d'orage, true beauty begins beneath the veil. The mask is but the frame— l'art doit rayonner de l'intérieur!"
Azazel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do I even ask…"
At last, Julien wheeled in a mannequin draped in ceremonial attire: a white double-breasted coat with subtle silver embroidery running like veins of moonlight, its long tails cut in the style of a knight's tunic, fitted trousers, and polished boots. The ensemble resonated with the cool brilliance of Azazel's hair, refined yet undeniably martial.
When Azazel stepped into it, the garment clung perfectly to his frame. He looked both hunter and dignitary—danger contained within elegance.
Aurelius entered the tent again, studying him in silence. Finally, the Grandmaster gave a single approving nod. "Perfect. Now the mask."
From a silver-threaded sack, he drew forth the Mask of Saint Cyprian—a visage wrought in pale silver, its surface engraved with faint runes, its hollow eyes gleaming faintly with an inner light. Aurelius handed it to his student.
Azazel placed it upon his face. The world dimmed, but in its dimness there was power.
"Excellent," Aurelius said. "Now we depart."
Soon after, a carriage more ornate than any Azazel had seen before rolled up, its lacquered wood inlaid with gold and its wheels gleaming. He and Aurelius climbed aboard. Horses stamped, bells chimed—and the procession began its way toward the grand reception.