By the time Azazel and Juan returned to the abbey, night had spread its velvet cloak over Rome. The garden lanterns flickered, casting long, crooked shadows across the paths.
At the gates stood Sister Iris, arms folded, her face caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"So," she said, tilting her head, "the famous new disciples manage to cause a commotion on the very day of the second trial. Why am I not surprised?"
Juan opened his mouth, then shut it again when she waved him off. Her laughter was light but knowing. "Don't worry, boys. The Order loves chaos—it keeps them from getting too bored." With that, she slipped back into the garden like a phantom in a habit.
Down in the cellar, the air was damp as ever. Azazel tore the mask off his face, groaning. "Saints above, I swear this thing is cursed. My nose itches like the devil's been tickling it with a feather dipped in holy water."
Juan, already collapsing into his makeshift bed, mumbled through the pillow: "Maybe you're just allergic to responsibility." Within seconds, his breathing slowed, and he was gone, fast asleep.
Azazel scowled at him, then chuckled despite himself. He rubbed his reddened face, muttering: "If I grow a rash shaped like the Vatican cross, I'm blaming Iris."
But sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight.
He slipped the mask back on, its edges pressing into his skin once more, and ascended the creaking stairs of the abbey. The corridors smelled faintly of wax and incense, silence broken only by the faint groan of wood. On the second floor, he stopped before a heavy oak door—the Grandmaster's chamber.
Knock. Knock.
Aurelius' voice answered, calm but commanding: "Enter."
Azazel pushed the door open. The room smelled of parchment, smoke, and steel—an office, a sanctuary, and a war room all at once. The Grandmaster sat at a broad desk, quill in hand, glasses on, but his eyes rose immediately to his pupil.
"Your team did well today," Aurelius said evenly. "Reckless, perhaps. But promising."
Azazel hesitated, then stepped forward, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The words had been simmering for days, and now they burned on his tongue.
"You know why I'm here," he said quietly, amber eyes hard.
The Grandmaster leaned back in his chair, studying him with that ageless, unreadable gaze. A thin smile played across his lips.
"Yes," Aurelius murmured. "I can see it in your eyes. You finally want to talk about them."