Fourth Intermission: "Somber songs of the Associates..."

The rain fell slantingly on the mansion's windows, carrying dust and moisture as if it wanted to erase the place from the face of the earth.

Inside, the central hall was dimly lit by crooked chandeliers; shadows stretched across the peeling walls as if they wanted to listen.

Amidst the gloom, Rydia's voice rose weakly, drawn out, like a lament:

"No one will know what I went through... no one will know that I suffer for love..."

Baal'thazar yawned in a rickety armchair and tossed an empty skull to her, which bounced at her feet.

"Come on, newbie! A little joy, you'll put me to sleep. Add something more lively, more festive, eh?"

Rydia looked at him with dark circles under her eyes that seemed tattooed on her face. Still, she obeyed reluctantly:

"We're preparing for Christmas~..."

Nigravos stood up immediately, his cloak sweeping the dust with offended gravity.

"Enough!" he thundered, his voice restrained but laced with resentment. "Anything but that detestable pagan ritual of lights and bells."

"Ritual?" Baal'thazar retorted with a crooked smile. "Don't tell me you still hold a grudge against a decorated tree..."

Nigravos glared at him.

"It's not a tree. It's the symbol of human banality. Nothing disgusts me more than those songs repeated in every filthy tavern."

Rydia dropped the sheet music on the table and sighed so deeply that the candles flickered.

"And what's my fault? I've been sleepless for three nights, putting up with your old men's bickering."

“Elders,” Baal’thazar laughed, patting his chest. “My dear, I invented the concept of a secular carol centuries ago. Want to hear one?”

The demon cleared his throat and began to sing, improvising enthusiastically:

“Ding-dong, blood flowed, on the throne someone died~”

Nigravos immediately interrupted, raising a finger with inquisitorial solemnity.

“If you continue, you’ll summon things that not even the Count, Azrael, or even the Masters of Complete Chaos could control.”

“Bah, exaggerated. A little swing never killed anyone… well, except for that one time in Prague…” 

Baal’thazar chuckled to himself, remembering.

Rydia slumped into a chair, burying her face in her hands.

“Why did I accept this position? I could be seducing clueless earls, plundering treasures… but no, here I am, trapped in the most depressing rehearsal in history".

“Because the hierarchy rules,” Nigravos replied with the seriousness of a judge. “And you’re the last to arrive.”

“Exactly,” Baal’thazar added, raising an empty glass as if toasting. “Welcome to aristocratic hell, little one.”

Rydia glared at them.

“I swear, if I ever become the Count’s favorite, I’ll have you both rehearse… dressed as reindeer.”

Baal’thazar burst out laughing.

“Now that would be a Christmas to remember!”

Nigravos, for his part, closed his eyes with a doomed sigh.

“If such a day comes… it will be the end of the world.”

The rain redoubled its drumming on the windows, as if accompanying the absurdity of that meeting.

All this commotion was interrupted when Azrael materialized in the middle of the chamber, the candles flickering as his form emerged from black smoke.

His presence carried the weight of the storm he had just unleashed, yet his gaze seemed distant—still pondering the clash with Ayato, Isolde, and their companions.

Nigravos, sunk deep into a torn armchair with a tome of alchemy in hand, raised his eyes only slightly. His voice was calm, edged with disdain.

 "And how did you fare in testing those fragile mortals of flesh?"

Azrael’s sockets burned faintly crimson as he answered, each word a knell.

"What they lack in raw power, they make up for in determination… Left to grow unchecked, they may become something far greater than they should..."

A wet crunch echoed in the silence. Baal’thazar leaned back lazily, tossing a handful of insects into his mouth as if savoring sugared almonds. A mocking grin split his face.

"If you’re asking about Zeltha, don’t worry. She’s not rotting in bed all day~ She’s been… productive. In her own peculiar way~"

The faint melody of Rydia’s sigh cut through the heavy air. She rose from her seat by the candlelight, her wings stirring as if eager to escape.

Azrael stood in the center, still wrapped in the echoes of the past battle. His scythe rested like an extension of his own shadow, the embers in his empty sockets flickering and fading with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

Nigravos patiently leafed through his alchemical tome, sunk into a battered armchair that seemed about to swallow him whole.

He barely looked up when Rydia's voice broke the silence.

"I've been checking on Ayato and Isolde's movements..." Her voice, modulated between official adjective and personal desire, was barely a whisper demanding to be taken seriously. "And it seems they're heading toward Clémarine."

Azrael raised his head, alert. The air around him tightened like a rope.

"And what do you suggest?"

Rydia inhaled and clasped her hands behind her back, as if preparing for a solemn act.

"Let me follow them myself. It'll be more efficient than relying on rumors or third parties. Clémarine is a key point; someone has to make sure they don't go further than they should."

Baal'thazar, holding his bowl of insects, spat a crunching sound through his teeth as he chewed."Keep watch?" he asked mockingly. "Or are you looking for an excuse to leave this den because you can't stand our charming company?"

Rydia glanced at him, exasperated but still composed.

"Call it what you will. I call it... responsibility. If anyone has to dirty their wings following them through the storm, let it be me, after all. I summon the Court Jester to this world..."

Nigravos closed his book with a thud. His eyes burned for a moment in the gloom.

"You'd better bring results, not excuses. The 'newcomers' only gain prominence when they survive long enough to deserve it."

Azrael didn't speak at first. The scythe vibrated with an almost imperceptible murmur, as if responding to Rydia's suggestion.

Finally, his voice pierced the gloom:

"If you wish to advance, do so. But remember: getting too close to the fire doesn't turn you into light. Only into ash."

Rydia inclined her head slightly, as if accepting a challenge rather than an order.

"Then... consider it done."

As she turned toward the door, the shadows seemed to follow her like a chorus of murmurs. 

The mission sounded like surveillance, yes... but inside her, the need burned to escape that stifling room and, finally, make a name for herself beyond being the "apprentice," to win Isolde's affection (or so she wants to believe), and for Ayato to be her trump card.

Behind her, Baal'thazar let out a dry laugh.

"Save the date, boys. Our little bird is going to fly... we'll see if she comes back with news or with singed feathers."

Hidden beneath a black cloak, she moved through the shadows as if dancing through puddles. 

Her folded wings were barely visible, camouflaged in the darkness as she began to fly in the rain.

And yet, despite the warnings, despite the shadow of ashes that hung over her fate, the desire burned. May she be remembered. May her name not be a lost echo.

Rydia clenched her fists until she felt her nails dig into her skin. The price didn't matter. She'd rather burn in the fire than fade into nothingness.