Azalie tugged on her thick leather combat training outfit, tightening the straps on her boots. She knew before she left her room that Father would refuse to see her and Azazel, and her hunch was confirmed when one of Molch’s attendants turned them away at the door.
Azalie didn’t like waiting around, so she convinced Azazel to spar with her. Azazel sighed but agreed, only on the condition she didn’t use any of her ice abilities, since she was still technically in recovery. She groaned a whiny, exaggerated complaint in Romanian, making Azazel chuckle.
They entered the expansive training hall, the polished wood floor gleamed beneath the high ceiling, its sparring mats lined up like a Japanese dojo. In one corner of the training hall, a group of vampyres tossed weight equipment between them. Physical strength was hardly a challenge for any vampyre, Changed or Pureblood. The weights were mostly used as entertainment. Something to fling back and forth, and snicker at each other’s failed catches.
As Azalie and Azazel stepped onto the dojo floor, the others at the far end stopped what they were doing, backing away to watch from the door. Azalie never did like the lingering stares, but if they learned something by watching her and Azazel spar, then it didn’t bother her as much.
The twins stretched in silence, each getting into their own rhythm. Azazel wore a thick leather training jacket and boots, his coat draped over his shoulders as usual. Azalie worked her muscles loose, shaking out her arms and legs. It had been a while since they last sparred, and she was eager to see if her brother had improved.
“Don’t go easy on me,” she whispered to him. With eyes watching, they had to be Azalie and Azazel again. Azazel gave a knowing nod in reply.
Their training with Dante had been brutal. When they were younger, one of them had to throw the match just to get a break. Dante often changed the rules to prevent them from going easy on each other. Matches became exercises in problem-solving, like pinning him with a spoon in ten seconds or fighting with one arm tied behind their backs. Both had walked away with more broken bones than they could count, but the experience sharpened them. They became free of Dante’s tutelage not long ago. Only sparring on the rare occasion. Though she hadn’t sparred with Dante since the incident a year ago, when she’d nearly broken more than just his face.
The twins met in the center, bowing low before flipping back into stances. The room held its breath.
Azazel struck first, advancing with swift, calculated blows. Azalie matched his speed, dodging and deflecting. She flipped back to give herself an opening to sweep his legs. He closed the gap, jumping, evading, but she was ready. She caught him in the air, landing a powerful roundhouse kick that sent him sprawling into the stone wall. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him, but she caught the hidden grin on his face before he rushed her again.
They exchanged blows for blow, kick for kick, shifting seamlessly between offensive and defensive. Azazel tried her previous leg sweep, but she dodged, grabbing his shoulders, flipping herself over him as he followed through with the roundhouse kick to the air. She tightened her grip on the cuff of his shirt and used her momentum to fling him up and over, throwing him to the floor. A few onlookers at the doorway snickered at Azazel’s second defeat.
Azazel did a kip-up, his golden cat eyes flashing. “Din nou!” he said harshly in Romanian. And they went again.
He charged her, and they fell into a rhythm, one pushing, the other giving, then reversing as though moving to music only they could hear. Hours passed, the crowd behind them growing. Azazel had landed himself a few wins, but Azalie still held the lead. She could feel the strain in her muscles, her breath coming in short gasps, while Azazel, though slightly winded, looked as calm as ever. His eyes alight with a golden glow.
As Azazel prepared for another attack, she noticed a split-second hesitation in his stance. Her senses tingled—as a sudden presence came behind her. Reacting instinctively, she spun, unleashing a roundhouse kick on whoever was behind, with the force that had sent Azazel flying hours earlier.
"Well, someone must be fully healed if they’re up for sparring." Dante pushed off the wall, his arms crossed in casual disdain. Azalie instantly regretted kicking him—though really, he’d asked for it, trying to sneak up during a match.
“Or perhaps you need someone who’s more of a challenge to you?” Dante’s gaze cut to her, eyebrows raised.
"Dantalion," Azazel replied respectfully, his tone a measured calm, "Azalie and I were only doing light sparring. She’s not yet healed for a full fight."
"She seems plenty healed if she’s bested you ten out of fifteen times." Dante peeled off his jacket and waistcoat with deliberate slowness. “Or were you going easy on her?” Dante mused as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Azazel bit his tongue and stepped back, yielding the floor. Dante had already claimed command.
Azalie squared her shoulders. “Dantalion, we’re only using hand-to-hand combat.” She couldn’t stop him if he really wanted to fight her, but he never fought fair. He returned her request with a cold, black, abyssal stare.
“There are no rules in a real fight.” With that, he vanished.
Her heart jolted, a pulse of adrenaline mixed with dread. Dante’s ability was absolute stealth which allowed him to basically become invisible at will—no sight, no sound, no trace of his presence. But she had sparred with him often enough to predict his moves. He had taught her everything she knew, after all. She only had to imagine she was fighting herself. Above! She side-stepped, dodging as a fist slammed toward her, catching him with a solid kick to the ribs. The impact lacked her usual force, but it was enough to send him back a few feet. She had to conserve her strength, evading without striking back.
She could almost sense his growing frustration as the minutes dragged on. She had dodged most of his attacks, taking only a few hits, each one rattling her body. But most of his attacks never connected.
Then, the energy in the room shifted—a foreboding chill as if something else had vanished. Dante’s ability didn’t only pertain to himself. Anything he held would also become hidden. She glanced quickly at the weapons rack; two wooden training swords were missing. Dante never fights fair, she reminded herself. She summoned her ice daggers just in time to block a fierce strike, the impact sent her sprawling backwards, shattering the daggers in her hands.
She felt the drain of her ability, her breath ragged as she summoned another set. Barely in time to deflect his relentless onslaught, giving her no moment to recover. She backed toward the wall, forced against it, the wooden sword slamming into her side, her arms, her legs. She gritted her teeth, swallowing a cry of pain.
Dante became visible, pinning her against the stone wall with the wooden sword pressed to her throat, his mocking smile twisted with pleasure. "What’s wrong, Lady Azalie? Tired are we? Used too much magick? Perhaps you’d like a break?" His voice dripped with contempt, his eyes taunting her as she struggled to breathe. “I can’t hear you, Lady Azalie. You must tell me what you want.”
“Te dracu!” she hissed, spitting in his face. He recoiled, grimacing, giving her the moment she needed to kick him away, coughing violently as air painfully rushed back into her lungs.
But he was on her again, his form blurring toward her like a dark phantom. She rolled out of the way, her limbs heavy and trembling, barely dodging his attack. She knew she couldn’t keep going, she was too drained to evade, too worn to counter. But this was Dante, he’d never let her concede. He would just beat her till she couldn’t move.
He rushed at her again. She braced herself as he closed in on her. Just as he was about to strike again, Azazel darted between them, striking Dante squarely in the chest with the heel of his palm, sending Dante flying backwards.
“This fight is over,” Azazel’s voice rang with the same iron authority as Molch’s.
Dante scoffed, brushing himself off as he rose. “Fights do not end on your word.”
Azazel growled, his voice edged with anger. “This was supposed to be training. You turned it into a brutal beating."
“What a pity then, Lady Azalie. After your grand adventure in China, I’d expected you to have learned something new,” Dante said, casting a dismissive glance toward Azalie.
His words struck like a blade. Her face flushed as the memories resurfaced.
He gathered his belongings, stepping close enough to murmur only to her. “Oh, how I wish I could have been there to witness you reap what you’d sown. For alas, I can only imagine the look on your face.”
Azalie’s vision blazed. She wanted nothing more than to tear him apart, piece by piece, here and now.
“Now, now, careful, Lady Azalie.” Dante’s tone turned icy, his gaze hardening with satisfaction. “Remember what happened last time? Wouldn’t want another slave crest slapped on you for your disobedience.”
She stared daggers at him, tightening her grip on Azazel’s arm, her fingers digging in hard enough to make him wince, her nails almost breaking skin.
Dante's snide smile widened, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the training hall.
Azalie stormed down the hall, cursing herself for her own blindness. Of course, Dante knew about China. He’s the one that got him sent to Russia in the first place, putting him in that horrible situation, knowing he would try to escape and be branded as a traitor. She thought Dante must have been very pleased, watching his schemes unfold when Molch sent her after him. Her blood boiled, imagining Dante's smug satisfaction at watching her struggle. It was enough to make her want to drag him into the morning sun and watch him scream until he reduced to ash.
“Azalie!” Azazel’s voice rang out, and his hand gripped her arm, halting her in her tracks. “Azalie, stop!” He grabbed her again and held her still. She could barely breathe through the seething anger she felt.
“Let go of me, Azazel!” She wrenched against him, but he tightened his grasp.
“I will not!” His tone was iron as his jaw clenched, though she could see worry flashing in his eyes. “You just encased the entire training hall and corridor in ice. You need to control yourself, right now!” He gave her a stiff shake, as though trying to tether her back to reality.
Her anger momentarily ebbed as she turned to look behind her. The walls and floors glistened with frost, creeping like vines through the stones trailing up to her.
“Great,” she hissed, irritation bubbling up once more. She hadn’t noticed the drain at all. She raised her hand and, with a weary gesture, shattered the ice into a fine, delicate snowfall that disappeared like a fading dream. “There,” she murmured, her voice brittle.
Azazel’s eyes widened, then narrowed with concern etching his features. His grip tightened on her arm as he pulled her along down the hall.
He threw open his bedroom door and ushered her inside, sitting her down on his bed with a rough shove that betrayed his own frustration. “What’s going on with you? Why the hell is Dante trying to beat you up? Have you done something to him again?” His gentility all but gone.
Azalie’s eyes narrowed, her anger flaring anew. “I have done nothing to Dante! He provokes me for sport, like a wolf after wounded prey.”
Azazel shook his head, pacing in agitation.“That is not an excuse to rise to it!” His fingers raked through his hair. “You should know better by now.”
Her jaw tightened, and she turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I do know better. I didn’t punch him this time.”
Azazel arched his brow. “No, you only nearly shattered my arm with your vise grip and encased part of the estate in a frozen wasteland.”
She crossed her arms, forcing herself to stare at the wall not wanting to be lectured. Letting herself lose control was the same as if she had punched him. She knew it, but knowing hardly tempered the rage smoldering within.
Azazel let out a resigned sigh. “What did he say that provoked you?”
She pressed her lips together, the words caught in her throat. She couldn’t tell him. A wave of shame crashed over her. She knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she couldn't, it was that she wouldn’t. Instead, she let herself flop sideways onto her twin’s bed, turning her back to him and facing the smooth stone wall, shutting him out.
“Fine, don’t tell me.” His hands raised in a gesture of surrender, a hint of hurt and disappointment in his tone. “Maybe some meditation will help you calm down, if only to prevent you from burying the rest of the estate in an early frost.” He left, slamming the door shut behind him with a resolute finality that echoed like judgment. Azalie winced at the sound, burying her face in her hands.
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