Azalie stirred, groaning in Romanian, against a pressing pain constricting her chest. She tried to move, her limbs numb and sluggish, fumbling as if disconnected from her mind. Her fingers brushed against something soft, silky—like the fur of a cat.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted into the dim, orange glow of her bedroom. Only two candles were lit, their light flickering off the smooth stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows. She draped an arm over her face, the pain in her head sharp. It felt like she'd been hit by a freight train.

Something shifted beside her. “Azalie?” came a hoarse, sleep deprived voice.

She slowly dropped her arm and turned her head to find a pair of familiar golden-yellow eyes, stark against the dimness of the room.

“Azazel?” she whispered, unsure if she was dreaming.

He nodded, pulling himself up into a sitting position. His movements were slow, as though fatigue clung to him too. He rolled his neck, wincing at the stiffness. 

“How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened?” he asked, concerned.

“Numb,” she muttered, feeling like she was trapped in the strange limbo between consciousness and oblivion. “Feels like my limbs are asleep.” She struggled up into a sitting position, her muscles protesting every inch. Azazel quickly stuffed some pillows behind her, propping her up better.

“I expected that,” he said softly, the concern never leaving his tone. “What about what you remember?”

Azalie ran her fingers through her tangled silver hair, her mind struggling to piece together fragments of memory. “Um, I remember the ice wall that I made, then the next one, and trying to tear it down…” She paused, her brow furrowing as flashes of the attack resurfaced. “The cannons. Someone was firing cannonballs!”

Azazel raised a hand, gesturing for her to calm down. "Good. You remember. I was worried.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the unusual concern in his voice. Excessive use of one’s power ability never caused memory loss before. “Why were you worried? I thought I only overexerted myself,” Azalie said, confused.

“You did, but when we made it home, you passed out on the back of the horse and we both sort of—well, we fell off,” he said sheepishly. She groaned inwardly. Of course they fell. He’d never been good with horses.

She rubbed her forehead, trying to shake off the remnants of grogginess. “So what happened after that? How long was I out?”

“Only half a day,” he replied. “If you hadn’t fed, you’d probably be in worse shape.” He pulled his fur coat off Azalie, draping it over his shoulders like a snug puzzle piece.

The weight of the events suddenly hit her again. “Do you know why all that happened? The cannonballs? Does father know?”

Azazel shrugged, his expression a mix of frustration and uncertainty. “Father wouldn’t see me yet. Astaroth went to talk to him, but I haven’t heard anything since.”

Azalie grumbled an annoyed sigh. They’ve been attacked before, even out in the open as they had been, but cannonballs were a new escalation. The thought brought her back to the tainted blood issue again, to the strange energy surge she felt at the blood den. It all seemed connected, she just couldn’t figure out how.

Azazel’s eyes lingered on her as she bit down on her lip, lost in thought. “Stop biting your lip,” he murmured, leaning in to free it from her fangs. “It makes me nervous.”

She glared at him, the sharpness dulled by fatigue. She poked his finger with the point of her fang. “I’m thinking, Zel.”

“Then think out loud.”

She pulled her chin away. His hand withdrew to his lap. “I’m thinking about everything that’s happened. The blood, how it got tainted, the surge in power that night, and then the cannon fire.” Her voice dropped, frustration clear. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Azazel frowned, clearly uncomfortable with where her mind was going. “We don’t know if that was really meant for us,” he said, echoing Astaroth’s earlier reasoning.

Azalie’s eyes darkened as she turned back toward him. “Zel, do you seriously believe that? Ten cannonballs lodged in my ice wall, followed by another volley? We were absolutely the targets.”

Azazel opened his mouth to argue, then stopped himself with a defeated sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. I just don’t understand why.” His hands tightened into fists on his lap. “Attacks have happened before, but this—this attack seemed personal.”

Azalie slowly nodded. “It probably was. When we were at Mother of Pearl, the donor I had, Julia, told me she was a slave to the Thaddious family until about a year ago.”

Azazel’s golden eyes widened with a sharp intake. “The Thaddious group? Are you sure? I thought they were just a legend meant to spook young fledglings.”

“I don’t know why Julia would lie about something like that, so I think it’s true,” Azalie said. “There were scars on her that looked like they were from rope binding. She told me someone from our clan freed her and brought her to the brothel.”

“Dragi zei,” Azazel swore in Romanian, his golden eyes darting around as if he was trying to piece it all together. “Who in their right mind would do that?”

“I don’t know,” Azalie whispered. “They probably weren’t in their right mind at all.” Azalie sighed. “I wonder if Father knows about all this.”

They both fell silent, the weight of it all settling over them like a shroud.

Azazel glanced at her cautiously. “If he doesn’t, should we tell him?”

Azalie stiffened, her mind racing. She hadn’t thought about that. If Father really didn’t know, he'd have her thrown out, maybe worse, killed if he thought Julia posed even the slightest threat. Her father wasn’t known for his mercy. Azalie’s breath caught in her throat as the image of Julia’s terrified face flashed through her mind at the thought of basically sending an innocent girl to her death.

“Azal—”

“No,” she said, the word slipping from her lips before she realized it. “Julia’s been at the brothel for a year. That’s plenty of time for Father to have done something if he felt it warranted it. If Thaddious and his goons really wanted to attack us, they would have done so back then, right? The carriage attack has to be related to something else—other feuding clans, perhaps? Besides…” her voice lightened, tilting her head with a cheeky smile. “We aren’t supposed to be working on this assignment.”

Azazel chuckled, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“But Zel,” she said, her voice shifting to a serious tone, “make sure you have your weapons on you from now on.”

Azazel chuckled and leaned over the side of the bed. When he sat back up, he held a sheathed blade—a katana. He had a lot of them. His fire could melt anything, so his weapons always needed to be replaced. This one was different, though—special. Azalie’s eyes widened. “Is that…?”

“It is,” he said with a wide grin, and unsheathed the blade. Brisingr.

The steel of Brisingr gleamed faintly, its sheath like a dark polished mirror against the dim candlelight. Said to have been forged in the fires of hell, Brisingr was supposedly indestructible. Their father had gifted it to Azazel after he’d mastered every sword art form. Azazel hailed it as one of his most prized possessions. He kept it in perfect condition, though he rarely used it. The blade barely showed any wear, even after years among his collection. Azalie reached out, her fingers hovering near the sheath, a strange pang tugging at her chest.

Azalie’s gaze lingered on the sword. She’d always relied on her own abilities in battle, without the need for weapons that wouldn’t break or shatter. While Azazel could call on both his fire and this weapon, she herself was the weapon—a piece of ice wielded at her Father’s command—a perfect tool, designed solely for combat, beautiful and deadly.

“Azalie?” Azazel’s voice was soft, his cat-like gaze searching her face. She blinked, pulling her hand back, releasing the thought.

“Brisingr looks good. Have you been cleaning her?” she asked lightly.

Azazel nodded, his grin widening. “Yeah, I just sharpened her, actually. The day you got home. How did you know?”

She giggled. “You’re grinning like a lunatic. You always look that way after sharpening her, like a child with his favorite toy,” she teased.

He clutched the sword to his chest. “Brisingr is like royalty among my collection. She must always be kept in peak condition, regardless of her usage. She is special and should only be drawn when absolutely necessary.”

“Oh? And when is that?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Because yesterday seemed pretty necessary.”

He sighed, sheathing the blade to set aside. “Zalie, even if I’d had it with me, there’s only so much one blade can do.” He shimmied closer, pressing his forehead to hers as he thumbed her cheek. “I thought horses would be our best escape, faster than standing ground. And when you created that second wall, I realized how much it must’ve drained you. But zeii mei, you made it as thick as the arctic floor.” His voice was heavy, tinged with regret. “I’m sorry for putting you in that position.” 

She sighed, rubbing her forehead against his. “I really wasn’t thinking, just reacting.” There wasn’t much he could have done in the moment, and she knew it. There was no reason to hold it against Azazel.

Azalie released another long breath. “How is Astaroth? I saw him take the brunt of that cannon fire shielding me.”

Azazel’s expression darkened. “Broke his entire arm, but otherwise still intact.”

She pressed her lips together, her brow creasing with worry. “And Von? Is he…?”

Azazel shook his head. “Gone. He died on the first hit, when the carriage went over.”

Azalie's frown deepened. She hadn’t known Von well—he’d been a quiet presence in their clan, but a clansmen all the same. Mourning death was not something they openly practiced. Even for Azalie and Azazel, mourning death was a private matter, to be endured in silence, unlike the human world with its grand ceremonies and expressions of grief.

Suddenly, a memory stirred of him again. The boy, lying still in China, his body pale against dark earth. The one she’d killed, the one she’d buried without truly knowing how. She’d tried to follow human customs, digging a grave, laying flowers on the soil, hoping it might bring him peace. A chill pricked her skin as she wondered whether he was at rest with that much or if his soul roamed restlessly, his spirit forever bound to her mistake. It hurt that she would never know.

“Zalie? Are you alright?” Azazel’s voice pulled her back, his thumb gently brushing away a tear she hadn’t felt. She wanted to tell him, to confess the weight of her regrets. But now wasn’t the time. Not yet.

She gave a slow nod and took a steadying breath, willing herself back to the present. “So, what’s next?” she asked, steering the conversation back to their plans. “Request an audience with the Lord, our Father?”

“There’s nothing else we can do. If he doesn’t want to see us, we’ll have to wait until he does,” Azazel said.

Azalie rolled her eyes, groaning. “I’m not going to sit around doing nothing while he takes his time making up his mind.” She threw the covers off, only to freeze, gasping as she realized she was wearing nothing but a thin, nearly see-through robe. With a yelp, she drew the covers back over herself. Azazel quickly looked away, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Zel, you cad! What did you do?” she hissed, eyes flashing.

“I didn’t do that Zalie, I swear,” he said, his eyes covered as he quickly rolled off the bed.

“You brought me in here!”

“I just brought you here to rest! After I laid you down, I went to try talking to Father and Astaroth. Margrett came in and said she’d clean you up. When I came back, you were still asleep. I only laid my coat over you.” He stood up from the floor with his tie wrapped over his eyes like a blindfold. “There, better?”

Azalie’s scowl softened, and she stifled a laugh. “Get out of here, you loon.” She threw her pillow at him, which he dodged with an exaggerated flinch before vanishing out the door.