In a vast, candlelit chamber of an ancient French château, the creak of aged doors broke the silence. Two heavy burlap sacks, writhing with movement, were unceremoniously dragged across the polished marble floor by a pair of house-elves, their spindly limbs betraying surprising strength. The sconces on the walls flickered, casting long, shifting shadows across the room as the captives were brought forward and dropped before a throne-like chair near the hearth.
From the shadows, a velvet voice purred like silk slipping off satin. "Did you invite Cecil White?"
The elves obeyed without hesitation, pulling the sacks from the heads of their captives. The sudden rush of candlelight forced Josh and Cecil to squint, their vision swimming as they tried to regain their bearings. When at last the room came into focus, they found three figures standing before them.
Cecil's gaze fixed on the tall, pale man with blond hair, his posture stiff, his eyes lowered as if burdened by a shame he could not voice. "Lord Trévér…?" Cecil said, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "What's the meaning of this? Why are we being brought here like prisoners?"
But Charles Trévér said nothing.
The woman leaning against the wall gave a melodious, mocking "tsk tsk tsk," before she pushed off and sauntered forward. Her heels clicked sharply with each deliberate step, her lips curling into a predatory smile.
"You don't get to question him," she said, voice smooth as aged cognac. "I'm the one you should be asking. I invited you."
Josh blinked at her, confusion plain on his face. "And who exactly are you?"
That smile hardened into something cold. "Me? I am the true Lord of the Trévér family."
Cecil looked again at Charles, baffled. "That's not possible. Charles Trévér is the head of House Trévér."
The woman laughed softly, cruelly. "Oh, darling… no. Charles is just a puppet. My husband, yes. But a scapegoat all the same. You see, Trévér lords have had a habit of dying—assassinated, usually. So, for our safety, we keep the true lord hidden. Some use doubles, others, their brothers. I chose my husband."
She turned to Charles, who flinched as her gaze fell upon him. His shoulders hunched like a schoolboy about to be scolded.
"Right, dear?" she said, voice sweet as poison.
Charles jolted. "Y-yes, of course, darling. Everything you said is true."
"Good." She turned back to Josh and Cecil, her presence overwhelming. "Now, to business. I brought you here for a reason. A mutually beneficial arrangement, I hope."
Cecil, eyes narrowing, spoke flatly. "This is your idea of an invitation?"
The woman's smile returned. "My name is Alina. Alina Trévér. And yes, I wanted to make sure our first meeting left a lasting impression."
Josh, ever the calmer of the two, gave a small nod and said cautiously, "Very well, Mrs. Trévér. What is it that you want from us?"
Before Alina could answer, a figure stormed into view from behind. Roman Trévér—her eldest son—punched Josh squarely across the jaw, sending him reeling to the floor.
"You speak only when my mother allows it, worm," Roman spat.
Cecil surged forward, eyes blazing. "Touch him again, and I swear, I'll break your damn hands."
Roman sneered. "You're in no position to threaten anyone. You're at our mercy."
Alina raised a hand, pressing it lightly to her son's cheek. "Now, now, darling. Let's not upset our guest."
Roman huffed, stepping back. "Only for you, Mother. I couldn't bear to see him disrespect you."
Alina's voice turned syrupy. "Such a protective boy. I love you so much." She kissed his temple, then turned back to her guests with a soft sigh. "Forgive him. He's quite fond of me."
With a flick of her wand, a chair appeared, plush and regal. She lowered herself onto it with the ease of someone entirely in control.
"There are two matters I wish to discuss," she began. "First: the Voclain family. My family has an old and bitter history with them. We've refrained from open conflict for years now, largely thanks to that little fox, Maximilien. But the past has a way of resurfacing."
A silent guard in the corner finally spoke, "Why revive a blood feud, Madame? What good can come of it?"
Alina's eyes gleamed. "There is an heirloom—a very particular artifact—that rightfully belongs to my ancestors. The Voclains possess it now, unlawfully. I intend to reclaim it."
Cecil tilted his head. "And how exactly is that our concern?"
She chuckled darkly. "Because, my dear boy, you are one of them. Illegitimate or not, you are the blood of the Voclain line. You have a claim."
He let out a bitter laugh. "If you can't reclaim what's yours, what makes you think I can? Or is this your way of begging me to do it for you?"
Alina's tone dropped, sharper now. "Careful. You are tolerated here, Cecil. Nothing more. You have no allies. No title. No inheritance. You're disowned, disgraced. Powerless. And you still let Eira White live. She's thriving—politically untouchable. She stole your name, your shield. And you did nothing."
Cecil's fists clenched, his jaw tight. "Don't speak of her."
"You should be begging for my help," Alina continued coldly. "You're no longer the little prince of the White family. You are nothing. But with me—" she smiled again "—you could be something."
Josh, still nursing his jaw, turned to Charles Trévér. "Why is your husband so silent? What did you do to him?"
Alina gave a rich laugh. "British men are easily broken. He's harmless, pathetic really. I let him live because he's useful. Otherwise, he'd be six feet under."
Josh's voice faltered into silence as he realized the truth: Charles was no lord, merely a consort—a decorative nameplate hiding Alina's iron rule.
Alina gestured idly. "The second matter concerns the White family. I intend to reshape them. Merge part of the French lineage under the Trévér banner, relocate it to Britain. A new dynasty with A new legacy."
Cecil's voice rose, furious. "You mean to destroy them!"
"Not destroy," she said sweetly. "Just rename."
"Over my dead body. The White name is mine. No one else's."
"Oh, Cecil," she sighed. "That name is already ashes. It's time for something new. With the Blacks gone, Britain is ripe for a new ruling family. The Trévérs will rise, and there will be no rival."
Josh shook his head. "You think the noble families of Britain will accept a French upstart? They'll crush you."
"They accepted the Lestranges, the Rosiers," Alina replied smoothly. "They'll accept us too. With the right compromises."
Cecil spat, "Even if your plan succeeds, do you think they'll allow it? They all want the White family for themselves—especially Eira. She's a perfect puppet. And if they see a foreign threat, they'll unite against you."
Alina smirked. "Then we'll remove her. Or, perhaps… Roman will take her as a concubine."
Cecil rose with fury, his hands shaking, barely able to speak. "You—"
"She would be an ornament. And once she bears our name, the White estate will be ours."
Cecil's voice was raw with rage. "Everything you've said benefits you. There's nothing in it for me."
"Oh, but there is," Alina said, standing slowly. "I offer you the Voclain inheritance. You could be its rightful heir. Its lord. Think about it."
Cecil stared at her. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "I need time to think."
Alina nodded. "You shall have it. But first… an Unbreakable Vow. You will never speak of what was said here today."
With grim resignation, Cecil agreed. They performed the ancient ritual then and there, their arms bound in glowing strands of fire. The vow sealed their silence.
As he and Josh were led back toward the exit, Alina called after him, her voice echoing across the marble hall.
"Think carefully, Cecil. You're utterly alone now. Only I offer you power. Without me, you'll remain nothing. With me… you might become a king."