Azalie walked through the narrow streets of Rome, the dog trotting beside her. She had set him down, expecting him to run off, but he stayed close, matching her pace.
What happened back there? Her mind raced, struggling to process it all. The boy—Lucius—she recalled his face now: soft curls of dark brown hair clinging to his pale, damp skin, the haunted brightness of his blue eyes. The same look as ‘his.’
Her throat tightened, her chest constricting at the fresh memory. She leaned against the cool stone of an alley wall, fighting to regain control of herself. Breathe. Breathe. The world spun around her, and she sank to her knees, grounding herself on the cobblestones. Even that didn’t help. In a sudden surge of frustration, she punched the ground, her fist cracking the stone beneath her.
Why was this happening? She didn’t understand or maybe she didn’t want to understand because then she’d have to face it. This assignment was supposed to be simple—go in, do the job, leave. Quick, efficient, as it always was. That’s how it should be. But hesitation, mercy, and now disobedience to both Dante and her father? She had never failed before. Something inside her felt wrong.
The dog whimpered at her side. She looked at him, his whine pathetic, and sat back against the alley wall. Patting her lap, she watched as he trotted over happily. He was rather large but thin.
Azalie didn’t know much about animals, but she recognized the dog as a Molossian breed, common in the streets. She wondered briefly if he’d been a stray the boy had taken in or if that had been the dog’s real home. Why had the boy given her the dog? What had he been trying to do when the dog was chained?
She glanced down. “Are you a stray?” she asked, watching as he awkwardly tried to sit on her lap, turning his head toward her voice, his tongue hanging out in a sloppy grin. She stroked his dark brown fur absentmindedly. Azalie liked animals as much as she liked watching humans, but neither had ever liked her much.
This dog was strange to her. He had been ready to attack when they first met, yet now he was trying to lick her face. Was it the mage boy’s doing? Had he turned the dog from feral to friendly? She recalled the flash of light and stared at the dog in wonder as he licked her nose.
“Disgusting,” she said with a small laugh, gently pushing him off her lap.
She felt somewhat calmer now, but the problem remained—how would she explain this to Father? Pulling out the paper with the name in Molch’s handwriting, she stared at it. The name still glowed. There would be no lying about completing the assignment. Her father would see through her. This was the first time she had to truly think about it.
“What am I going to do? What will he do to me?” Anxiety curled through her. She pulled out her calling stone, clasping it tightly. Focusing, she thought of her twin. He was the only one who could help her now. She placed the stone to her forehead and filled her mind with images of him, his golden eyes that mirrored hers, his tousled silver hair just long enough to fall into them. His pale, smooth face.
“Azazel,” she whispered out loud and in her mind. “Come get me.”
Azalie moved into the open street, her mind heavy with the night's events. The dim orange glow of streetlights mixed with the faint flicker of oil lamps in glass casings, casted long shadows over the cobblestones. She sat on the curb under one of the dim lights, unbothered by the thought of being seen or heard. Her father had given both her and Azazel a special rune, rendering them unnoticeable to untrained eyes. She wore hers on a chain around her neck, while Azazel wore his as an earring—he’d tried a ring, but it kept melting when he summoned his fire. Azalie made it into an earring for him instead.
The dog’s head rested in her lap as she stroked his fur in slow, calming motions. Soon, she saw Azazel sprinting up the street. Relief flooded through her at the sight of him.
He stopped, breathless, concern etched in his eyes. Azalie, feeling as worn as she likely looked, rose slowly. He pulled her into his arms. “Zalie,” he murmured into her hair.
“Zel,” Azalie whispered back.
He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, turning her to check for any signs of injuries. “Are you hurt? What happened?” His panic mirrored the storm inside her. She gently clasped his hands.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m just not feeling myself.”
Azazel launched into a barrage of questions. Her head throbbed, and she pressed a hand to his mouth to silence him. She briefly explained her failed assignment, avoiding details like her hesitation or the panic that overtook her in the alley. She didn’t want to relive it. She also left out why the dog was whining by her side.
“Zel, what am I going to do? What’s going to happen to me? How do I fix this?” Her voice shook, frustration at her own vulnerability rising. But this was Azazel—she didn’t have to hide from him.
He pulled her close again, stroking her hair. “Zalie, you’re not one to panic. You’re only exhausted. You just got back from China. Father never should’ve sent you out again so soon. We’ll talk to him, he’ll understand. As for the assignment, it’s simple. Just finish it. I’ll go with you.”
Azalie froze, her breath catching in her chest as his words echoed in her head. Finish the assignment? Kill the target? The boy with the haunted blue eyes—those same, terrified eyes as ‘his’. Her chest tightened. She pushed away from her brother, gasping for air, and staggered a few feet away as the street began to spin around her.
“Azalie?”
“I, I...I have to—” She stumbled to a pile of trash, retching, blackened blood spilling from her lips.
“AZALIE!” He rushed to her, catching her as she swayed.
She held her stomach, her head pounding. “Zel...I…” She tore away from him and heaved again, her body trembling uncontrollably.
“Did you drink any blood this morning?” His voice was tight with panic.
“W-hat?” she managed to ask, confused by his question.
“The blood! From this morning—did you drink it?”
Blood? Azalie’s thoughts swirled, growing foggy. The bottle Margrett had brought... “Yes, I drank some this morning.” She held her hand to her stomach.
“Some? How much is some? How much did you drink?”
“What are you talking about?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. “HOW MUCH DID YOU DRINK?”
“HALF!” The pain in her head intensified, and the dog's frantic barking echoed in the background. Azazel shouted more questions, but everything blurred. The lights spun wildly, colors bleeding together. She shoved him away, stumbling as the street dissolved into darkness and collapsed.
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