Sylva sat at the wireframe table out in the garden. She barely noticed as Brigette sat down across from her. "So, is this it then? Are you here to kill me, Eighth Death?" Brigette smiled and laughed. "No, I could never. This isn't true death, it's death of race. Once I turn you, you'll be one of ours, a Deathkin. My apprentice." Sylva sighed and Brigette nodded. "I know how you feel, I felt the same way when Apophis chose me." Sylva looked at Brigette, puzzled and Brigette nodded. "You'll be allowed to meet him." Sylva nodded and stood as Brigette did too. "I'm ready to begin." Brigette nodded and spoke. "Choose your name then." Sylva spoke anew. "I am Saint Azrael." Maman Brigette spoke in her deathtongue taking Saint Azrael's hand. "A pact. For The Masked Killer, The Hooded Hunter, The Saint. Take my hand, and be reborn, as a reminder that Death is merciless. Be the dark in the last moments of the light. Remind them of where they go. Remind them of what they’ve done. For I am Death, and I name you my blade. Saint Azrael, The Reaper." Sylva was dead and Saint Azrael stood in her place.