The mansion still smelled of smoke and broken history.
Eira stepped through the front door, boots crunching faintly over scattered glass. The grand foyer of the White family estate in Paris stood in eerie silence, a haunting contrast to the chaos that had erupted here days ago. The chandeliers, once radiant, now hung with missing crystals. Picture frames were crooked or shattered. The air was thick with dust and the memory of conflict.
Emma followed closely behind, her gaze moving across the ruins with quiet grief. This place, once a symbol of power and elegance, was now a scarred battlefield.
"You can rest now," Eira said gently, glancing at her Assistant . Her voice was hoarse. "Tomorrow, we pick up the pieces."
Emma nodded, too tired to speak. Her eyes were sad for her lady's sadness.
Without another word, Eira turned and walked up the staircase, her legs heavy. The fatigue wasn't just physical—it was carved deep into her bones. She pushed open the door to her old room. It looked nearly untouched, but the illusion didn't comfort her. She collapsed onto the bed, face-first into the cool sheets.
And then, Lolly.
The name stirred in her chest like a phantom limb. Memories crashed in—soft laughter, stolen moments, blood, fire. Her breath hitched as the silence of the room amplified the ache in her heart. She tried not to cry, but tears came anyway, hot and slow, seeping into the pillow beneath her. Lolly's voice echoed in her mind like a melody cut short.
Downstairs, Emma remained awake. Even exhausted, her hands needed something to do. She moved through the rooms, picking up shattered glass, setting broken chairs upright, brushing dust from portraits. It was a quiet kind of mourning. A way to say this was real, this happened, without falling apart.
Hours passed.
Eventually, Emma crept upstairs. The door to Eira's room was ajar, and she peeked inside.
Eira lay still on the bed, her back rising and falling in a soft rhythm. But Emma saw the dried tears on her face, the way her brow was furrowed even in sleep. She exhaled slowly, then pulled the door shut with a quiet click and went to her own room.
Sleep took her like a wave.
⸻
The next day unfolded like fog.
Emma rose late. Her limbs were sore, and her mind dulled by rest. She moved quietly through the kitchen, preparing a simple lunch—bread, soft cheese, and some fruit. When she checked on Eira again, she was still asleep, curled on her side, her hair a mess of white waves across the pillow.
Emma left the tray on the table and slipped out of the house, the city greeting her with its indifferent hum.
Her mission was clear: find Cecil.
Hours later, Emma returned with fire in her veins.
She didn't bother to knock when she re-entered the mansion. Eira was sitting on the couch now, awake, nursing a cup of now-cold tea. Her eyes met Emma's the moment she stepped in.
"Well?" Eira asked, voice low, cautious.
Emma didn't waste time. "They're in the south. A villa near Marseille. Cecil… and Roman."
Eira sat still for a moment, like her body was trying to catch up to her rage. Her knuckles whitened around the cup.
Then she set it down with a deliberate clink.
"Let's go get this son of a bitch," she said, her voice a razor wrapped in velvet.
Emma nodded.
____________
The road south led them through winding mountain passes and deep, frozen woods, where the trees stood like sentinels draped in white. By the time they reached the outskirts of the estate, the snow was falling in thick, quiet sheets, blanketing the landscape in ghostly silence.
Eira and Emma crouched behind a half-buried stone wall, eyes fixed on the grand villa beyond. It was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, the gates sealed tight with magical wards that shimmered faintly in the dark. Dozens of figures moved with purpose across the grounds—cloaked in black, their wands close at hand.
"Trévér family wizards," Emma whispered, her breath forming clouds in the cold. "I count at least eight near the perimeter."
Eira's eyes narrowed. "Cecil's gotten paranoid."
"Roman's with him. That explains the extra protection."
They watched in silence as a pair of guards passed by, boots crunching in the snow. None of them looked friendly. These weren't hired mercenaries. They were loyalists—blood-sworn to the Trévér name.
Eira shifted slightly, brushing snow off her cloak.
Emma glanced at her, then said under her breath, "My lady… the wand."
Eira raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
"You should use the household wand," Emma said. "The one that bears the White family seal. If things go wrong—if someone from the Ministry shows up and wants to check—you can show own wand .If they track your spells, they'll see the wand registered to your name, not the White name."
Eira reached into her coat and pulled out the elegant, White elegant wand with the silver crest of a fox at its base. It gleamed like light in the snowy . The wand of the Lord or in this case, Lady—of House White.
She looked at it a moment before tucking her personal wand safely away.
"Smart thinking," she said. "We'll need every advantage."
The snowfall grew heavier. The villa's torches flickered against the cold, orange flames barely visible through the snowstorm.
"No Muggles nearby," Eira murmured, scanning the surrounding hills. "Good. We don't need civilian eyes on this."
"Too remote," Emma agreed. "No one comes out here unless they have a reason."
Eira turned to her, her voice colder now. "We're going to hit them fast and loud. But we won't leave our names behind."
Emma blinked. "You mean to frame someone?"
"The Voclains," Eira said, eyes gleaming. "I want them to think this was a hit ordered by them. Blood magic signatures, spell remnants—they'll follow the trail we leave."
Emma hesitated. "But my lady… wouldn't that start something? If the Trévér retaliate—"
"I don't care if it starts a war," Eira said, cutting her off. "Let the Voclains burn if they get caught in the fire. My target is Cecil. Everything else is noise."
Emma stared at her for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Understood."
They returned their attention to the estate. Wind howled low across the frozen ground.
"Are you ready?" Eira asked.
Emma tightened her gloves. "Always."
The snow fell harder now, covering the footprints they left behind as they slipped like shadows through the white.