The fire crackled softly, casting an eerie blue hue over the room as Azalie sat beside her twin. She had cried for what felt like an eternity, her chest still aching from the weight of it all. Now, silence settled between them, the only sound being the occasional crackle of Azazel’s blue flames licking the fireplace.

He was lying on the bed next to her, propped up by a stack of her pillows, watching her quietly. He always had a way of waiting, never pushing, just being there. Azalie’s fingers trembled as they traced the edge of the silk pillowcase.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was a boy.” The words felt heavy, but she forced herself to say them, to let them out before they suffocated her. Her chest tightened as the memory surged forward, unbidden and raw.

 Azazel’s eyes shifted toward her, his full attention now on her. Azalie didn’t want to hide anything from her twin, but she couldn’t give him this, at least not all of it. She took in a shaky breath.

“When I was in China . . .there was a boy . . . I knew him. I thought I could save him . . . I tried so hard . . .” She swallowed hard, her throat tight as she willed herself to keep it together. “But in the end… he died. Because of me.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The weight of those words crushed her, the finality of them suffocating. Even if she thought Azazel could handle the rest, she couldn’t bear to relive it all. She looked down at her hands, as though expecting to see the boy’s blood staining her fingers. 

Azazel was quiet for a beat, processing what she had said. “He died… because of you?” he asked gently, his tone carefully measured.

Azalie flinched, nodding, though she wished she could shake her head instead, to pretend it wasn’t true. But it was. And there was no undoing that.

“Zalie, you were on an assignment,” Azazel continued slowly. “We’ve both done what was necessary of those who got in the way or saw too much—”

“No.” She cut him off sharply, shaking her head.“Don’t try to justify it. This—this boy didn’t deserve it. He was innocent.” She clenched her fists, trying to hold herself together.

Azazel opened his mouth, perhaps to offer comfort, but he stopped himself. Silence stretched between them, only the faint crackle of the blue flames filled the emptiness.

He shifted slightly beside her, the bed creaking as he moved. “Zalie,” he murmured after a long pause. “What can I do for you?”

She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her silvery hair. Her fingers trembled as they smoothed down the strands. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Nothing can fix what’s been done. I just have to… come to terms with it.”

But deep down, she knew it was more than that. She didn’t want to just accept it. In truth, she wanted vengeance for the boy. She wanted to suffer for it. To feel the full weight of her actions. The grief, the regret—for having been so foolish, so careless. There could be no forgiveness for her mistake, not from herself anyway.

Azazel shifted again, his voice breaking the silence. “When we’re back on duty, let’s talk to Father about letting us work together again,” he suggested, trying to pull her from the darkness of her thoughts.

A small smile tugged at her lips. It had been so long since they’d worked together. “I’d like that,” she admitted softly, a glimmer of warmth briefly breaking through the cold. “The Zalzeli duo back in action.”

“Zalzeli? That’s what they call us?” A look of playful disgust appeared on his face.

Azalie let out a breathy laugh, her shoulders loosening a fraction. “No, of course not. I just made it up.” Her voice softened, the laughter fading. “If anything, it’s ‘Molch’s Children’ or ‘The Twins’ or ‘The Lordsmen’s Kin.’”

Azazel rolled his eyes, a small chuckle escaping his lips. He threw up his hands. “Well then, Zalzeli it is,” he teased.

Azalie fell back against her mountain of pillows after all the laughter had finally escaped her. For a moment, the heaviness lifted, and she allowed herself to breathe. It was a small reprieve, but she clung to it like a lifeline. “I’ve missed this,” she said, her voice quieter now.

Azazel smiled softly, his eyes flicking to hers. “Me too.”

Azazel turned on his side, propping his head up with his elbow. “Tomorrow, we're going to Mother of Pearl,” he announced, trying to keep the mood light. “And maybe Café Luna afterward, if you’re up for it.”

Azalie smiled at the thought, nodding faintly. Human food did nothing for their kind, in the way of nutrition, nor could their kind taste the different flavors. Azalie simply liked to sample the culinary arts of humans, claiming, only to Azazel and Margrett, that she could in fact taste the differences between the dishes. She’s even got Azazel to taste different things, but so far it was limited to frozen cream and honey. 

“Sounds good,” she murmured, feeling the weariness of the night dragging her down. “Zel, go get some sleep. You’ll be no use to me if you’re half-dead tomorrow.”

In an instant, Azazel pulled the covers over himself, nestling in beside her. “I’ll sleep when you sleep,” he said stubbornly.

She rolled her eyes, though she didn’t argue. He was being clingier and more stubborn than normal, though for tonight she didn’t mind. She didn’t want to be alone. She needed him here—needed his warmth, his presence, his quiet strength—to keep her from slipping back into the abyss of her own mind. “Fine,” she conceded, shimming under the covers. She fluffed her pillows and laid down.

It wasn’t long before she heard Azazel’s deep breaths softly filling the silence of the room. The blue fire in the fireplace dimmed in response. The room grew darker, her thoughts slowed, and for the first time in a long while, she felt… safe.

Azalie found herself back in the hunting cabin, deep in the Chinese mountains. The scent of blood-soaked wood and cold mountain air clung to her senses as she sat on the floor, cradling the boy in her arms. He had the youthful face of a teenager, but the build of a fully grown man. His disheveled black hair fell over his stormy blue-gray eyes, pain and terror swirling in his gaze. That haunted look pierced through her, sinking deeper than any wound. 

She had kissed those eyes before—eyes she had once known so well, now clouded with death. Her hands trembled as she kissed them again, desperate to erase the horror. His skin was cold beneath her lips, a chilling reminder of her failure. When she pulled away, the boy was gone.

She gasped, her arms suddenly empty.

The room shifted, the air thick with unsettling silence as someone else took his place.

His dark brown hair was neatly brushed back from his face, revealing those piercing ocean-blue eyes. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, his gaze locking onto hers with a strange intensity—a familiarity she couldn’t explain, sending a chill to her core.

Her heart pounded. The mage boy? Lucius.

He raised a finger to his lips, a silent command, the gesture slow and deliberate. The sound of her heartbeat filled the silence between them. Then, like smoke, he vanished.

Azalie stirred, a sense of grogginess tugging at her consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open with a quiet sigh. Azazel was still asleep beside her, his silvery tousled bedhead, clung to his face as the dim blue glow of the fireplace danced at the edges. The light softened the edges of his features making him appear younger, vulnerable even. She studied him for a moment, curiosity flickering in her mind. How young must he look to a human? Sixteen? Seventeen? She wondered if that mage boy had thought the same about her.

Closing her eyes again, she let her heightened senses reach out, feeling the night around her. The sun had long since set, and the moon was high—her internal clock whispered it was close to midnight.

Her eyes snapped open. Midnight! She shot upright with a gasp, her pulse quickening as the realization hit her—she had slept for fifteen hours.

“Zel!” She shook him vigorously. “Get up! It’s midnight!” His groggy groan came in response as he turned away, his face half-buried in her pillows.

Azazel wasn’t an easy riser. She gritted her teeth and yanked the covers off him, earning her a muffled complaint in Romanian. She ignored him and shook him again. “Zel, wake up!”

Reluctantly, he rolled over, one golden-yellow eye half-opened in irritation. “Zalie, we don’t have any work,” he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. He yawned, pulling the covers over his head again to cocoon himself in her sheets. “Get up, no need.” 

“No, Azazel, it’s after midnight!” Her tone was sharp as she fought to keep her nerves in check. “We have things to do and you’re sleeping in my bed. Dante will barge in any second to check on me, and I can’t deal with his lectures on house rules." She ripped the covers off him again.

“Just say I just got here,” he muttered and grabbed the covers, tugging them back, his grip stronger than hers at the moment.

“He’s not blind. He’ll see that’s a lie.” She grunted, pulling with all the strength she had, though it was clear she hadn’t fully recovered.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Azazel released his grip on the blanket and in a blink, he was gone—vanished into the shadows of the bathroom. Azalie lost her center of balance and stumbled backwards, cracking her head against the corner edge of one of her shelves.

“Fecior de curva!” she shouted in Romanian just as the door opened. Astaroth stepped in, his stoic presence filling the room.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice monotone as always.

Azalie winced, clutching her head. “Nothing. I just tripped over myself.” Her gaze flicked toward the bathroom door with an unspoken accusation.

Astaroth tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. He tapped the side of his temple. “You’re bleeding.”

She pulled her hand away, and sure enough, they were smeared with blood. “So it would seem,” she stated, more irritated than concerned. “Is there something you need, Astaroth?” she said impatiently, gathering herself up off the floor.

“I’ve come at the request of Lord Molch. I’m to escort you to the Mother of Pearl tonight,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a handkerchief. He pressed it to her temple, his touch impersonal. “Come now. You must feed if you are injured enough to bleed.”

“Astaroth, wait, I must dress first.” She wasn’t about to go anywhere in her nightgown.

Astaroth’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “You appear to be already dressed,” he said, though it sounded as if he was confused.

Azalie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She forgot Astaroth didn’t care for such details of one’s dress attire—his mind seemed always elsewhere. And since he spent most of his time at the brothel, she could imagine why.

“Astaroth, this is a nightgown, not something I’d wear in public. Let me change into something more presentable.”

For a moment, he hesitated, as if weighing her words. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. I’ll wait for you outside by the carriage.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Azazel reappeared from the bathroom, his expression shifting from playful to concerned as his gaze locked on her head. He crossed the room in one leap. “Azalie, your head, are you all right?”

She peeled back the handkerchief for him to inspect. “I don’t know. How bad is it?”

He frowned and she saw him visibly swallow before pressing the handkerchief back to her head. “It’s deep. You need to feed.” His voice laced with an uncharacteristic edge of worry.

Azalie sighed as he crossed the room in search of something for her to wear. She didn’t normally let Azazel pick her clothes, not since that one unfortunate incident where he tried to dress her like a clown a few years back. But this time he pulled out a lavender off-the-shoulder Athens gown with a sheer scarf embroidered with delicate flowers. It was simple, elegant—surprisingly fitting for the occasion. She nodded her approval.

Then she shoved him out of the room, leaving her to change in peace. Azalie dressed quickly, fingers trembling as she adjusted the embroidered scarf and handkerchief. The lingering pain in her head kept her grounded, but the dream from earlier still tugged at the corners of her mind. That boy... Lucius…

She shook the thought away and peeked out of her door, ensuring the hallway was clear. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way outside, still pressing the bloodied handkerchief to her temple. The last thing she needed was to explain this mess to anyone.

Continue to next part.