Lucifer turned to Isadora, flashing a smile so dazzling it could make a chandelier jealous. "A masterful performance, Barachiel." He clapped, though it was more of a polite golf clap — just enough to acknowledge, not enough to suggest he enjoyed the show. "One worthy of an encore. Although, personally, I prefer a little less... you know… mutilation."
Isadora wiped a streak of someone else's blood off her sleeve with all the grace of a refined lady dabbing at a wine stain. "Lucifer, you taught me to fight with that mask on." She took a step toward the pergola, where three out of the original four pillars were still standing, making the whole structure look like a sad game of Jenga. "And coupled with my assassin training, I must say… this is me now."
Lucifer raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, the way one does when trying to determine if a painting is an abstract masterpiece or just an accident. "Then you must improve. Improvement is what all humans should strive for as they live." He paused dramatically, as if waiting for an imaginary orchestra to play an ominous note. Isadora's hand had already begun lifting to her mask.
His voice dropped to a low, warning tone. "Do not remove that mask, Barachiel. Unless you like to offend the lord's words."
Isadora froze mid-motion, her fingers hovering over the mask's edge like a thief about to snatch a priceless jewel. "But why? Detective Felix already knows my identity."
Lucifer let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for exasperated parents dealing with a child who's just drawn on the walls again. "The Lord has forgiven you for revealing your identity to an outsider once. Doing it again would not only be an insult to his generosity but a direct challenge to his authority. And, you may not have seen the lord fight, but, he crushes most enemies with just his will. Do trust me, he doesn't exactly take insults lightly."
She hesitated, then let her hand drop. "I see. And what of him then?" She gestured vaguely toward Felix, who was watching the exchange with the keen interest of a man who knew he was dangerously close to becoming an ex-detective.
Lucifer turned his gaze onto Felix, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to shiver with the weight of his judgment. "The Lord has allowed him to live," he said, his tone implying that this was an incredibly limited-time offer. "As long as no intelligent being other than him knows your true identity."
Felix, ever the survivor, plastered on a smile that was just a little too wide, just a little too enthusiastic. "Of course! No one will." He placed a hand over his heart as if swearing a solemn vow. "I have the memory of a goldfish when it comes to things that could get me killed. Names? Faces? Pfft, gone. Already fading. Who are you again?"
Lucifer narrowed his eyes.
Felix's smile remained fixed, but he slowly lowered his hand. "Too much?" He was just trying to ease his own nervousness, but it came off pathetically.
Lucifer didn't answer, just stared in a way that suggested Felix had precisely one get-out-of-murder-free card and had just barely managed to play it.
Judge sat in his room like a hermit king of dusty antiquities, his throne — an exquisitely designed wooden chair with golden patterns and dark cushions — positioned just so in the dim light of nearly-noon. His day, so far, had been devoted entirely to the noble art of studying artifacts.
And by "studying," we mean he'd been gazing at the new set of relics so ancient and mysterious that even his antique coffee mug looked modern in comparison, in all his years of researching artifacts — he felt like he had hit a wall.
He'd posted a bold, perhaps even reprimanding, notice on the door: "Do Not Disturb — Serious Artifact Contemplation in Progress!" (A message that might have even intimidated a particularly nosy fly.)
The true reason behind his meticulous artifact analysis was, of course, to prepare for his grand reunion — another meeting of the recorders. It had been more than a week since the last gathering — a week so long it felt like the artifacts themselves were starting to dust off and organize their own mini-reunions.
Judge believed that recorders, like fine wines and even finer conspiracies, improved with time. Yet, as of now, the meeting had not taken place. The delay wasn't due to laziness or procrastination — no, Judge was merely waiting for that elusive, magical moment when the universe would conspire to let him conduct his scholarly ritual undisturbed.
He needed the perfect window — when the hallway was quieter than a mime convention, when even the creaking floorboards wouldn't dare make a sound.
Since he himself had no clue how long his 'story editing and publishing to Clio' session would last (one can never predict the riveting narrative of an ancient shard or the secret life of a chipped vase), he had to ensure that every trivial matter in the outside world was thoroughly taken care of.
Priorities, after all, come in a specific order: first, artifacts; then, meetings; and finally, maintaining his façade of normalcy around the other denizens of the building, except maybe Seraphis.
Earlier, he had even graced the common areas with his presence — a calculated performance designed to reassure everyone (and perhaps himself) that he was still "normal" and hadn't been permanently absorbed into the mysterious vortex of ancient relics.
After this brief social cameo, he retreated back into his sanctum, ostensibly to study artifacts. In truth, it was the perfect pretext to secure his privacy.
After a sumptuous lunch that he'd prepared with the care of a medieval alchemist mixing potions (okay, maybe it was just a chicken sandwich, but one must savor the moment), Judge was primed and ready to jump headfirst into the studio.
There, he would finally host the meeting of the recorders — a gathering so anticipated that even the echoes in the corridor were rumored to be murmuring in excitement. And standing sentinel, as ever, was Solarae, whose duty it was to keep a watchful eye over Judge's domain. With Solarae on guard, no pesky intruder or overly curious artifact enthusiast could breach his fortress of solitude.
"Alright," Judge finally stood up, "Keep watch, Sol."