The garden glowed like a dream, lanterns swaying gently in the night breeze, their flames throwing rippling shadows across the marble colonnades. Music drifted from a string ensemble hidden among the hedges, weaving delicate threads of harmony into the air. Servants moved silently between clusters of nobles, balancing trays of golden goblets and platters heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sugared confections.
Azazel walked at Aurelius's side, stiff as a statue beneath his new white attire and the silver mask of Saint Cyprian. Every glance felt heavier than a blade. Even though the mask concealed his face, he could feel eyes upon him, tracing his every step.
"Head high," Aurelius whispered, his tone sharp enough to cut. "You are not prey here."
They were immediately surrounded.
A bishop in crimson approached, his rings catching the lantern light. His Latin rolled like honey.
"Grandmaster Aurelius, your presence graces us. And this must be…?"
Aurelius inclined his head. "Lucien, my pupil," he said firmly, resting a hand on Azazel's shoulder. "A promising young man, and my chosen escort for this reception."
Azazel bowed slightly. He had no idea if it was too shallow or too deep. The bishop smiled politely, though his eyes measured him as if weighing a coin.
Soon after, a Spanish envoy, draped in brocade, strode over, his voice booming.
"I hear the Order aided in quelling disturbances near Ravenna. A pity your kind were not there on the field—our soldiers bled enough without hunters hiding in shadows."
The words stung, but Aurelius merely smiled.
"The Order's duty is not to meddle in politics, Señor, but to ensure none of your men had to face enemies far darker than the French. Surely Spain's priests whispered to you how many demons lurk where armies march."
The envoy grunted, silenced, and reached for a goblet. Azazel caught the flicker of a smirk under Aurelius's calm mask of courtesy.
Clusters of nobles and envoys rotated around them like moths to flame. Germans from the Holy Roman Empire demanded to know whether hunters could be hired to secure their borders. An Italian duke, jeweled fingers twitching nervously, whispered about rumors of heresy and witches in the Apennines. Even an Ottoman observer, draped in silk and gold, stood silently nearby, his dark eyes fixed on Azazel, as though trying to pierce the mask.
Azazel found his throat dry. When spoken to, he gave short, polite answers, careful to echo Aurelius's tone but never overshadow it. Yet behind the mask, his mind raced. Every person seemed to want something from them—strength, secrets, reassurances.
At one point, a young Venetian noblewoman laughed lightly and leaned toward him.
"Sir Lucien, is it true you never remove that mask? Some whisper it is cursed. Others say it hides a face too handsome to show the world."
Azazel froze. A dozen eyes turned to him. He forced himself to tilt his head, just enough to seem mysterious.
"I find whispers more useful when unanswered," he said calmly, and raised his goblet in a silent toast.
The circle of nobles chuckled approvingly. Aurelius's lips twitched in the barest ghost of a smile.