The moment Aurelius vanished into the crimson sea of cardinals and black-robed patriarchs, a sudden boom of trumpets rattled the Grand Hall.
Golden curtains at the far end were drawn back, and two figures entered with imperial pomp.
On the left, robed in the white and red of Castile, was Queen Joanna of Castile—known to some as Juana la Loca, though no one dared speak the name aloud in this chamber. Her crown glittered with heavy gems, and yet her expression wavered between regal composure and a certain flicker of unrest in her eyes.
Beside her, tall and armored, carrying himself with the pride of the Habsburgs, was Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor. His scarlet mantle dragged like fire across the marble as he took his throne with the gravity of a man who considered himself chosen by both God and sword.
The crowd bowed, some to one, some to the other, many to both. Azazel copied the gesture, stiff and awkward, hoping no one noticed how shallowly he bent.
The music faded into silence. Then, as the servants began to pour wine and bring trays of delicacies, the tide of nobles and envoys shifted from solemnity to the low rumble of conversation. Laughter rose, goblets clinked, arguments sparked in Latin, Italian, German, and tongues Azazel barely recognized.
For the first few minutes, Azazel lingered at the edges, trying to imitate the relaxed elegance of men who had spent their entire lives at courts. Then came the problem.
He reached instinctively for one of the golden goblets that had been offered to him. Red wine shimmered within, promising relief for his dry throat. He raised it halfway, then froze.
The mask.
The damned mask.
He tilted it slightly—no opening. He considered slipping it beneath the edge, but the mask fit flush, sealed tight like a second face. His hand trembled with frustration. If he tipped the goblet, it would all splash over the mask, and that would be the end of him.
He lowered the wine, pretending to swirl it with an air of refinement. Around him nobles were drinking freely, trading toasts. A cardinal nearby downed his cup in a single gulp, while a Florentine merchant laughed so hard his wine nearly spilled on his embroidered sleeves.
Azazel's heart thudded. If he held the goblet too long without drinking, someone would notice. He had to get rid of it.
So, when no one was watching, he attempted a maneuver—leaning against a column, he angled the goblet behind him and tried to discreetly pour its contents into a massive potted plant.
At first, it worked. The soil darkened. But the wine didn't flow fast enough. His hand shook with urgency, and suddenly—plop—a splash hit the marble floor.
Azazel nearly swore out loud. He quickly shifted, hiding the goblet behind the pot, praying no one saw the spreading stain.
"Amusing," said a voice behind him.
Azazel froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
There, standing only a pace away, was none other than Queen Joanna herself. Her crown shimmered in the torchlight, and her eyes—sharp despite their melancholy—seemed to pierce straight through his mask.
Azazel stiffened, his mind scrambling for words, for explanations, for anything at all. But the Queen had already taken a step closer, her smile strange.