Just as Azazel's throat closed with panic, a heavy hand fell onto his shoulder.
"Lucien," Aurelius's voice cut in, steady and commanding. "You seem a bit strained. The road has been long. Find Juan and return to your quarters."
Azazel exhaled sharply, relief flooding through him like cool water. He bowed slightly, murmuring an apology.
"My apologies, Warden Basil," he said in a lowered voice, hoping the strained baritone would disguise his tone. Basil's eyes lingered for a heartbeat, then moved elsewhere, already caught by another guest.
Azazel slipped away into the crowd, his pulse still racing. He found Juan near the wine table, animated in conversation with several Wardens who were questioning him about Bartolomeu de Dias.
"…and is it true your master once fought three devils alone on the Cape—?"
Azazel broke in quickly. "Juan, we should go. Now." He dipped his head apologetically toward the Wardens. "Forgive us. The Grandmaster ordered us to rest."
Juan excused himself, though not before snatching one last canapé from a tray and draining a glass of champagne in a single gulp. With Azazel tugging him firmly by the sleeve, they slipped away toward the cellar that had become their makeshift lodging.
Only when the heavy door closed behind them did Azazel finally breathe. Juan leaned against the damp stone wall, letting out a theatrical sigh.
"Saints above, you saved me. If I had to answer one more question about Bartolomeu's favorite sword grip, I would've drowned myself in that fountain. These receptions—too stiff, too suffocating. They're for old and experienced hunters, not for us."
Azazel managed a dry laugh, still shaking off his nerves.
Juan grinned suddenly, rummaging through a small satchel. "While you were getting your miraculous makeover, I went shopping. Honestly, you took me off guard with your new look!"
He chuckled and continued:
"Sister Iris said the first trial will start in two days."
Azazel raised an eyebrow and pointed toward his own battered travel case. "Already got both."
Juan blinked, then laughed, shaking his head. "Of course you do, Azazel."
Azazel grew more serious, his hand brushing over the case. His amber eyes caught the flicker of the candlelight.
"And remember," he added quietly, "you call me Lucien now. The Grandmaster's pupil. Azazel… doesn't exist here."
Juan's smirk faded into a nod of understanding.
The cellar fell into silence, broken only by the scurrying of mice in the corners.