Azazel's breath caught when Queen Joanna tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile.
"You spill wine like a nervous squire," she said lightly, though her gaze glimmered with something sharper. Then, before he could stammer a reply, she extended a pale gloved hand toward him.
"Come. Dance with me."
The words were not a request.
Gasps fluttered through the hall. Nobles craned their necks, whispering in every tongue. A masked stranger—unproven, unknown—chosen by the Queen of Castile herself.
Azazel's heart pounded. Aurelius would have killed him if he refused, yet the thought of drawing so many stares made his skin crawl beneath the mask. Still, he bowed slightly, accepted her hand, and led her toward the center of the polished marble floor.
The musicians caught the signal at once, strings and lutes swelling into a courtly pavane.
At first, their steps were stiff—Azazel careful not to crush her dress, Joanna measuring the youth's composure. But soon the rhythm took over, and the hall quieted as all eyes followed them.
Her voice, low and deliberate, brushed against his ear.
"So… the Grandmaster's pupil. Tell me, who hides beneath this mask? Surely not a ghost."
Normally, Azazel would enjoy such a beautiful woman to dance with him. But at those moments pleasure was the last thing he felt.
Azazel steadied his breath. "Names matter little, Your Majesty. What matters is that I stand as a representative of the Order."
"Clever," she said, spinning gracefully in his arms. "But masks conceal and reveal in equal measure. What are you hiding—shame, or power?"
Azazel chose silence, letting his careful poise answer for him.
The Queen's eyes narrowed, then softened. "Very well. Let us see if your mask hides ignorance at least."
She began probing with questions—sharp, subtle, political.
"What do you make of the Holy League's recent defeat at Ravenna?"
Azazel's reply flowed smooth, recalling Aurelius's drills: "A Pyrrhic victory for France. Their triumph stained by the loss of Gaston de Foix. Spain and Rome will recover, but France has lost its brightest general."
"And the Emperor Maximilian?" she pressed, nodding discreetly toward the other throne.
"He balances pride and necessity," Azazel replied evenly. "Dependent on alliances, yet always seeking to look the master of them."
Her lips curved, half-pleased, half-surprised. "And Castile?"
Azazel risked a smile beneath the mask. "It is the heart of Spain, Your Majesty. And its Queen—its soul."
For a moment, Joanna's eyes flickered, emotion clouding the sharpness. Then she laughed softly, twirling as the music slowed to its final notes.
The last chord echoed through the vaulted ceiling. Azazel lowered her hand and bent to kiss the embroidered silk of her glove. She allowed it, chin lifted proudly, before gliding back to her throne.
Near her was another throne. It was a place for Maximilian I, though it was empty now. Holy Emperor was nowhere to be found.
Whispers rippled across the hall—some admiring, some envious, all curious about the masked youth who had sparred with the Queen and not faltered. Joanna sat tall, observing him now not with suspicion but with a certain approval, as if she had tested steel and found it sharp.
Azazel exhaled in relief, stepping back into the crowd. But then—
Across the hall, beyond the shimmering chandeliers and gold-draped nobles, he saw him.
A man in black velvet. His face hidden by shadows. Only his hands visible.
Red glove.
Azazel's chest tightened as if a fist had clamped around his heart. The room spun for a moment. Memories stirred at the edge of his mind, pressing to break free.