Azalie had spent the night in Azazel’s room, sleeplessly tangled in his dark sheets until exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless sleep. A sharp, searing pain lanced through her chest, jolting her awake with a gasped cry. She clutched her chest as her gaze darted around the shadows. She was still in her twins’ room, alone.

She quickly checked herself for any signs of injury. None. Yet the pain was vivid, unmistakable. It had struck her once before, back at the brothel. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, not then, and certainly not twice.

Slipping from Azazel’s bed, she crept toward the door and pressed it open, slipping into the silent hallway. The grand corridors, usually a flurry of activity, were quiet, the halls deserted. She could sense the sunrise, inching over the horizon. From that alone, she estimated it to be nearing nine in the morning. Most, if not all, the residents would be settling down in their respective rooms.

She thought about returning to her own room, but that power surge…

She knew she had felt it again, unmistakably, the weight of her thoughts on it was intolerable. If I slip out now, no one will know. I’ll just return before they all wake. She smiled as she thought to herself. Reconnaissance. That’s all. She spun on her heels, heading for the front door.

The heavy oak door opened silently under her quiet fingers. Azalie stepped outside into the morning sunlight, squinting her eyes against the glow. Sunlight for her and Azazel never really bothered them, they had a much stronger tolerance than most Otherworlders. A mystery about them that their father liked to keep discreet, perhaps to conceal a potential weakness, though it wasn’t necessary. Most Lordsmen had a strong resistance to sunlight; just one of the many perks of becoming a Lord. It was only natural that a Lordsmen’s kin would also have some, if not the same sunlight resistance. Still, sunlight for them was draining, and today, as she set foot upon the front steps, the sun’s rays felt even harsher, prickling her skin and forcing her to squint. Her usual cloak of confidence felt thin under its draining rays.

For a moment, she thought about getting Azazel, though she reconsidered. He would likely try to stop her. Azalie couldn’t understand him anymore. He had always been her ally, her counterpart in this world ruled by their father’s iron grip. But now, it seemed that sometimes he was on her side, and other times it felt like he was against her. An observer in the role of the ever dutiful son and mild-mannered soldier.

She was that too, a soldier, a weapon for her father. She felt a pang of anger twist in her chest. She was a Lady, but she was anything but mild-mannered. Obedience doesn’t require courtesy, only compliance. And that’s exactly what she had done, blindly obeyed her father’s command, killing an innocent boy, who she so desperately wanted to save.

She felt everyone was against her now, and didn’t know who to trust anymore. She only knew what she wanted, and that was answers. And she was going to get them one way or another. The power surge was her only lead right now. If it turned out to be nothing, great, at least she would confirm it herself.

Azalie scaled the iron fence instead of taking the front entrance, fearing the groan of the gate would expose her. She dropped down on the other side, landing in a crouch. The skirt of her training outfit caught on the brambles, the thorns snagging her sleeves and scratching her exposed skin as she maneuvered around the dense foliage that surrounded the estate’s manicured grounds. She ignored the minor scratches, focusing on finding the area where she had felt the surge emanate from.

Traveling in the daylight was a lot harder than she thought it would be. The Italian weather was warmer than she liked, with the mid-September sun beating down on her, cooking her pale skin. She took periodic breaks within the heavy shade of trees and tried to stay under the awnings as she slipped through the crowded streets, unseen but watchful. The throngs of ordinary people moved around her, oblivious to her presence even when she brushed up against them, an unseen ripple in the steady flow of life around her.

She enjoyed being out among the crowded streets, watching the ordinary townsfolk go about their routines, each face a portrait of mundanity she couldn’t fathom.

She pressed on among the throng of humans, finally, she made her way back to where the carriage had been destroyed. The carriage itself was gone, so too were the cannonballs. However, the crater sized holes in the brickwork remained and Von’s ashen lingered in the cobblestone—a shadowed outline against the stone where his body had fallen. The sight made her stomach twist, though she couldn’t avert her eyes. Von. They didn’t even try to move him. She swallowed, a bitter taste lingering at the back of her throat as she tore her gaze away, continuing to follow the path.

By mid-day, Azalie felt no closer to finding the source of the power surge than when she’d set out. She only found herself at the end of a narrow, deserted street, its edges lined with crumbling Italian townhouses, each a fading testament to former grandeur. She nudged a broken stone with her foot, feeling a rising sense of futility. What had she truly hoped to find? The source of the bad blood? Justice for the boy in China? Perhaps, some trace of her own humanity for a chance at self-redemption? 

Instead, all she would find is Father’s wrath, if he caught wind of her wandering and the inside of a stone cell with a slave crest on her chest. She scowled, muttering something caustic in Romanian, and sank down on her heels, pressing her back against a crumbling wall. She was absolutely exhausted. The sun beating down relentlessly, mercilessly baking her skin, only made it worse. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back against the building’s facade.

“You know, it’s rather unbecoming to loiter,” said a male voice, rich with a bemused lilt.

Azalie’s eyes snapped open. She looked around in surprise.

“It’s even ruder to mumble to oneself. Are you mad?” the voice continued.

Azalie rose slowly, scanning her surroundings. “Perhaps,” she replied, arching a brow as she squinted up at a nearby building. It had seemed deserted moments ago. She held her head, wondering if the heat was playing tricks on her.

“I’m over here,” the voice insisted.

She turned to the sound and looked up. In the third-story window of a dilapidated building, the mage boy from before leaned out, his gaze as surprised as hers.

“You’re that mage boy,” she called up, somewhat accusatorily.

“And you’re that strange girl,” he replied in kind.

They stood frozen, studying one another. She realized then why she hadn’t sensed his presence—an elaborate glamour shrouded the entire building, concealing him. She had to deliberately peel back the layers of the glamour with her mind to see the boy staring out his window at her. The boy frowned, leaning out the window to look around, then opened the window wider, gesturing for her to come up. The directness of his request made her hesitate, yet her curiosity overpowered her caution. Without her ice ability to use, she eyed the crumbling brick wall, estimating the climb. 

With a leap, she scaled the wall and hoisted herself up, tumbling over the window ledge in a controlled roll. She made a dash for a dark shadowed corner. Sweet merciful bliss. She sighed as relief washed over her. Her skin was livid red, covered in sun blisters, eased in the cool darkness of the room.

The mage boy closed the window, drawing heavy curtains across it, instantly shrouding the little room in darkness. An oil lamp flared to life by the bed and the boy settled on the edge. Azalie watched him, and noticed a profound difference from the last time she’d seen him. The fear in his eyes was gone, now replaced with a hard-edged despair. His blue eyes, pit-less like the ocean floor. He was dressed with unexpected refinement, though—a trimly tailored regency tailcoat and fall front trousers, all accented by the hand-knitted shawl draped over his shoulders.

The room itself was plain, a far cry from his former accommodations. The floors were now a worn wood instead of tile, a small wood-framed bed was shoved against the far wall, with only a washstand, a nightstand, and a wing-backed chair arranged by a dead fireplace to complete the modest furnishings. The entire setting spoke of someone attempting to live quietly, beneath notice.

They regarded one another in silence until he spoke, breaking the tension.

“You look unwell…” 

“A bit, yes.” She glanced down, observing the sunburn and blisters marking her skin. “I’ll heal soon enough,” she added, brushing it off.

He studied her with a perplexed expression, then his eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You’re a demon.”

She scoffed at the bluntness, which seemed to startle him slightly, though she could hardly deny the accusation. “A type of demon, I suppose. If it pleases you, yes. I’m a vampyre,” she replied quietly. Maybe he wasn’t a real mage. Maybe he was just playing around with that mage book. She reached up to grab at her rune stone, it still lay between her collarbones, confirming her suspicions—he was more than he let on if he could see past its masking effects.

He leaned back, relaxing on his hands as he surveyed her. “A vampyre, then,” he mused, a hint of a Swedish accent lacing his Italian. “And what, pray tell, is a vampyre doing out in broad daylight? I thought sunlight was fatal to your kind.”

She gave a curt nod and gathered herself up off the floor. “Quite right,” she replied coolly, folding her arms. “Sunlight is deadly, but only to fools. However, I have a stronger tolerance than most,” she added, tersely.

He glanced pointedly at her scorched skin. “So those sun blisters are from what, then? An impromptu stroll through fire?”

Azalie was surprised by his tone, and despite herself, a small giggle escaped. She must look as if she really had gone mad. “No, you’re quite right. These are from being out in the sun,” she said, rubbing her stinging arms. “Normally I handle the sunlight much better, but I’m not feeling my greatest.” She shouldn’t be so candid, of course. Such a confession of weakness, even to this sickly mage boy, was a dangerous mistake to make. And yet, standing here under his guarded stare, she felt he wasn’t a total stranger. Something like an odd attachment to him. She almost dismissed the feeling as foolish.

As she watched him, she caught the slightest shadow pass over his eyes, ocean-blue but clouded, with an empty darkness that made Azalie’s chest tighten unexpectedly. Her distress must have shown because he stood at that moment, gesturing to the worn wing-back chair. “Please, sit down. You don’t have to stand on my account.”

Her brows shot up. “Why would I?” she replied, taken aback. “Are you someone of importance?” She hadn’t thought of him as anyone of consequence—not until now.

Lucius chuckled, a sound that seemed out of place in his otherwise somber expression. He shook his head, his smile dazzling despite his pale complexion. “Just an expression. Though I am master of the house while my father is away.” His tone soured as he spoke of his father, a trace of resentment lingering in his words.

She hesitated before taking the offered seat, sinking into the faded cushions. The chair was soft but threadbare, not quite the decadent comforts of home. She shifted slightly, her skin prickling as her sun-blistered arms brushed the fabric.

He studied her, his gaze calculating yet wary. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?” he asked, his tone now devoid of the sarcasm. “It must be rather important for one such as yourself to venture out during the daylight.”

Azalie rarely had cause to speak with humans outside the estate or The Mother of Pearl, and certainly not like this. Her father would have disapproved of even a stray glance in Lucius’s direction, let alone a conversation. This boy was someone her father wanted dead. She shouldn’t even be entertaining his questions. And strangely, she found herself wanting to answer him.

She knew the dangers of trusting too freely. Yet here she was, sharing a room with someone she had been ordered to kill. 

For reasons she couldn’t fully grasp, she found herself leaning forward. “I was investigating a recent power surge. I felt it last night and again this morning,” she said slowly, testing her own response as if hearing it for the first time.

“Was that what you were doing when you snuck into my room a few nights ago?” he asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

She shook her head. “No, I was sent to kill you that night,” she said bluntly. His face paled, his eyes widening, and she felt a pang of guilt as the tightness in her chest took hold. “You needn’t worry,” she said quickly. “I am not here to harm you.” Yet even as she said it, she saw the flicker of terror in his expression, his hands clutching the edge of his chair as his breathing grew shallow as he began to cough violently.

Without thinking, Azalie jumped up from the chair, guiding him down with a hand on his shoulder. Her fingertips tingled, sensing his fragility, the near-translucent pallor of his skin. He looked as ill as the first time she had seen him, maybe worse. She found herself gently rubbing his back, the gesture maternal, unthinking. 

“You seem unwell yourself, mage boy,” she murmured as his coughing subsided. He gave a weary sigh and sank into the chair, his gaze softening as he looked at her.

“Please,” he rasped. “Call me Lucius.” His voice was weak, but the tone felt resolute. He had offered his first name, instead of his family name, an intimacy she hadn’t expected. “Though you sound and speak as a lady, I can hardly believe that you are one. No such lady would ever be caught traipsing around in such an outfit.”

Azalie followed his gesture to her attire. Her training clothes must look rather scandalous to someone who didn’t understand her customs, with her bare arms and legs exposed. But instead of feeling insulted, his quip made her chuckle. “Since you have introduced yourself, I suppose it’s only fair I do the same. I am Lady Azalie Lordsmen, but you can call me Azalie.”

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