The carriage rattled over the cobbled streets of Rome, its lacquered wood creaking softly with each turn. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating—not from heat, but from the storm churning in Azazel's chest.
His palms were slick with sweat, though he tried to keep them hidden under his gloves. He could not understand it. He had faced demons, spirits, and death, and yet his heart thundered harder now than it had even in the abbey when Kimaris's black smoke wrapped around his throat.
Aurelius, sitting opposite him, adjusted the cuffs of his tailored coat and gave his student a cool, sidelong glance.
"Do not let your nerves undo you," the Grandmaster said evenly. "This is not a battlefield of blades and claws, but of words and glances. Still—it is no less dangerous."
Azazel exhaled sharply through his mask. "I don't know why, Master. The moment I put this thing on, I felt… strange. Like it was watching me back."
"The Mask of Saint Cyprian is sealed," Aurelius replied calmly. "In this state, it is little more than finely worked silver. What you feel is your own mind quivering beneath its weight. A relic carries not only power, but history. Men have died for less."
Azazel clenched his fists. He wanted to believe him. Yet beneath the cold metal, he swore he heard the faintest whispers.
The Grandmaster leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"Listen carefully. Tonight, we are sword and shield, voice of the Order. We will converse with princes, dukes, bishops, and envoys. You must carry yourself as the face of the Hunters' Order. Etiquette: speak when spoken to, but do not cower. Offer respect, but never servitude. And above all—do not forget you represent more than yourself. You represent centuries of our struggle."
Azazel nodded stiffly, his throat dry.
Aurelius's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.
"This gathering is more than a feast. Spain will be here, boasting after their costly victory at Ravenna, though their banners still drip with French blood. Envoys of the Holy Roman Empire—Germans with their pride stoked by Maximilian himself—will circle like wolves, eager to carve their share of Italy. The Ottomans have sent observers, silent but sharp, measuring Europe's pulse. And the Italian nobility… fractured, suspicious, each house eyeing the other since the battle's chaos."
He paused.
"Do you see now? Tonight is a chessboard. And we—Hunters—are not pawns. We must show that."
Azazel stared at him.
"And that, Lucien, may be both a curse and a gift."
The carriage slowed. The muffled clatter of hooves echoed against marble as they entered a wide courtyard lit by torches. Through the window, Azazel glimpsed the palace: a towering structure of Renaissance splendor, its white stone washed golden in lamplight, windows blazing like stars. Guards in halberds lined the steps, their armor gleaming, their faces grim.
The gates closed behind them with a resounding clang.
Azazel's breath quickened beneath the mask.
"Steady," Aurelius murmured. "Now comes the true trial."
They stepped from the carriage. The cold night air kissed Azazel's skin through the thin slits of his mask, but the weight on his shoulders only grew heavier.
At the doors, stern-faced guards inspected each guest, their eyes sharp for hidden weapons or false tokens. Aurelius presented their sealed writ. After a tense silence, the guards bowed and allowed them through.
Beyond the threshold stretched a vast garden illuminated by lanterns strung among olive trees. Marble fountains sang softly, their waters gleaming silver in the moonlight. Nobles in velvet cloaks and jeweled gowns strolled among bishops in crimson robes, their voices weaving into a tapestry of languages—Italian, Latin, German, Spanish, French, even Turkish. The air reeked of perfume and intrigue.
Azazel swallowed hard.
This was no battlefield of monsters.
This was worse.