Snow swallowed their footsteps.
Eira and Emma moved like ghosts beneath the storm—hoods up, cloaks drawn close, breath misting in front of them. The gates had been breached minutes ago: a silent, careful counter-hex dismantled the warding glyphs, thanks to Emma's steady hand. The iron creaked open just wide enough for two shadows to slip through.
Ahead loomed the villa. It stood silent against the mountains, all stone and arrogance, windows lit with flickers of firelight. The Trévér family crest—twisted silver tree—hung above the doors.
Just before they reached the front steps, Eira held out a hand.
Emma stopped.
"No killing," Eira said quietly. Her eyes were green like forest , met Emma's in the dark. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary. Knock them out, freeze them. We're here for Cecil, not a body count."
Emma nodded, no hesitation. "Understood."
They crept to the side of the house, bypassing the main entrance. Snow clung to their boots, but they left no trail—Emma had cast a minor obscuration charm behind them, a smudging of evidence with each step. The first guard stood near the back terrace, wand tucked into his belt, bored and pacing.
Eira didn't speak.
A flick of her wrist. Stupefy.
The red beam hit squarely. The man dropped like a sack of flour, his limbs freezing mid-step before collapsing into the snow. Emma rushed forward and dragged him behind a hedge, shielding him from view.
"Next," Eira whispered.
They moved like that—silent, surgical. One by one, they took down guards along the perimeter and inner halls. Eira preferred precision: a stunning spell, a binding charm, a quick disarm. Emma was faster, her spells quiet and practiced, leaving frozen statues and unconscious men tucked into closets and under furniture. Not a soul had time to scream.
The storm howled around the villa, a perfect cover.
Inside, the halls were warm but dim, lit only by sconces flickering with golden flame. Tapestries hung heavy on the walls, and the floors were polished marble veined with obsidian.
As they passed through corridor after corridor, they paused at every corner—listened, counted shadows, moved again.
Then—
A door cracked open up ahead.
Eira lifted a hand, signaling stillness.
It was just a servant—a young man in Trévér livery, likely heading for the kitchens. He never saw the hex that hit him.
The deeper they went, the more ornate the rooms became. Portraits of dead patriarchs glared down at them from their frames. The smell of incense lingered—amber and myrrh—and beneath it, old magic, something that clung to the bones of the house like mildew.
They found Roman Trévér on the third floor, just past the central stairwell. His room was open.
He lay on a velvet chaise, snoring softly, still fully dressed. A glass of brandy sat beside him, half-finished. His wand was on the floor near his boots.
Eira looked at Emma, one brow raised.
Emma shrugged. "Do we freeze him?"
Eira stepped into the room.
Roman stirred.
Then—Stupefy—the red light hit him before his eyes opened. He slumped deeper into sleep, now unmoving.
Eira picked up his wand and snapped it in half.
They moved on.
Just across the corridor, gilded double doors bore the engraved initials: C.V.W.—Cecil Voclain White.
Eira's breath slowed. Her hands itched.
She didn't knock.
With a swift kick, the doors burst open, wood cracking against the frame.
Cecil sat inside, legs crossed, a book open in his lap. He didn't even flinch—his eyes darted up immediately, and his hand flew toward the table where his wand lay.
"Expelliarmus!" Eira barked, her voice echoing like a bell through the room.
The wand leapt into the air before his fingers touched it, arcing across the chamber.
Eira caught it midair.
Silence followed.
Cecil sat perfectly still, lips parted. The fire behind him crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the room. His expression twisted from confusion to recognition to something like disbelief.
Eira stepped forward, her cloak trailing snow and ash across the polished floor.
She smiled.
"Long time no see," she said, voice calm as a winter blade. "My dear uncle."
Cecil blinked.
He hadn't moved an inch. His eyes tracked her every step, and in them, the reflection of something deeper—fear or guilt, or perhaps the memory of a girl he once thought he could control or kill.
Eira stopped just inside the room, wand lowered but ready.
Emma appeared in the doorway behind her, silent and watchful.
The fire hissed in the hearth. Wind rattled against the shutters. And between them, the past finally exhaled.