The morning light filtered gently through the lace curtains of the Parisian manor, casting soft golden patterns across the dark wood floors. Outside, the world was hushed in snow, the cobblestone streets muffled beneath a blanket of white. Church bells rang faintly in the distance, slow and somber, as if even the city itself was mourning.
Eira stirred beneath heavy covers, eyelids fluttering open to a grey ceiling. For a long time, she didn't move. Her body ached, not with pain but with a heaviness that lived in her bones. The kind of exhaustion only grief, revenge, and silence could bring.
The bedroom was warm — too warm for how cold she felt inside. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth, casting orange light against the far wall. By the foot of the bed, on the chaise, a small collection of wrapped parcels had appeared in the night, stacked neatly in a silver basket. Most were unopened, still glinting in their festive ribbons.
She looked at them without interest.
She didn't have the energy.
Her eyes drifted instead to the single package placed not with the others, but on her nightstand — a long, thin box of pale blue velvet, tied with a ribbon in white satin. A small envelope, pressed with a wax seal shaped like a delicate lily, rested atop.
That seal alone made her sit up straighter.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the envelope, sliding a nail beneath the wax.
She unfolded the parchment slowly. The handwriting was elegant and precise — unmistakably Fleur's.
Ma chère Eira,
I noticed your hair was short after the funeral. I know why you cut it, and I know what it means. Grief takes many shapes, and we all wear it differently.
But I also remember how beautiful your long hair was — the way it moved like a veil of white light , the way it framed your face when you laughed.
I don't send this as a vanity. I send it because I miss the parts of you that shine. And I think you do, too.
Enclosed is an elixir brewed by a Grasse alchemist. Rare and pure, costly — but nothing compared to your smile.
Apply it each night for three weeks. It will restore your hair to its full length, maybe longer.
Joyeux Noël, mon amie. I love your long hair. But I love you more.
— Fleur
Eira exhaled — a slow, shaken breath that carried the weight of a dozen sleepless nights. She brought the letter closer and rested it against her chest, then closed her eyes.
No one had spoken to her like that in days.
No one had reminded her of who she'd been before the the incident— before the blood and the balcony, before the silence of falling bodies and the last breath of a man who had once been her kin.
A trembling smile, fragile and uncertain, curved her lips.
It was the first time she had smiled in days. And not the kind of smile that bared teeth or came with iron in her voice. A real smile. Soft genuine smile .
She turned to the box.
The velvet lid gave way with a soft sigh, revealing a crystal vial nestled in silk. The elixir inside shimmered like liquid moonlight — pale silver with veins of soft blue swirling through. The potion smelled faintly of roses and honey, with a sharper hint of something ethereal, like starlight captured in glass.
Eira held the vial up to the light, watching it catch fire in the morning sun.
She whispered, to no one in particular:
"If you love my long hair… then only for you, Fleur, I'll grow it back."
She tucked the letter carefully back into its envelope and set it atop the velvet box with a reverence usually reserved for relics or prayers.
⸻
Downstairs, the manor was quiet. Emma was already awake, dressed in her usual dark robes, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she flipped crepes onto a warm plate and stirred a pot of thick, rich chocolat chaud.
She turned when she heard Eira's steps on the stairs.
"You're up early my lady ," Emma said gently.
"I didn't sleep well until morning ," Eira murmured.
Emma only nodded and poured the chocolate into a waiting porcelain cup. She brought it to the table, then set a full plate beside it — crepes with orange blossom honey, warm spiced bread, figs, and a slice of Brie.
Eira sat down. The room smelled of cinnamon and melted butter. The fire crackled softly in the stone hearth.
And then Emma placed the Le Monde Sorcier newspaper beside her plate, folded neatly.
Eira's eyes landed immediately on the front page.
The headline was stark, cold, and inescapable:
⸻
TRAGIC MURDERS SHAKE MAGICAL FRANCE: A WHITE WITH TRÉVÉR HEIR FOUND DEAD
Christmas Night Horror at the Trévér Villa
By Céleste Girard, Le Monde Sorcier Staff Writer
In a grim and disturbing revelation early this morning, authorities have confirmed the deaths of Cecil White, presumed disowned member of the White family , and Roman Trévér, firstborn son of the prominent French magical line.
Both men were found dead in the courtyard of the Trevor family's villa which belonged to Roman Trévér , just outside Marseille. Their bodies were reportedly discovered, one hanging from a third-floor balcony — Cecil by rope, and Roman was killed by the death curse.
Photos below the headline showed Roman's limp body, frozen in death, and Cecil's hanged corpse swaying slightly in the wind. Both images were blurred around the edges, but the scene was unmistakably real.
No signs of magical disturbance were detected on-site. Wards had been bypassed, but cleanly — the work of a professional or someone with intimate knowledge of the estate's protections.
An excerpt from the article read:
"Cecil White, though known publicly as the second heir of the White line, was recently revealed to be the illegitimate son of the Voclain dynasty — a truth long hidden from the European magical register. His involvement with the Trevor family raises concerns since the Voclain family and the Trévér family have a long history of rivalry so this act was not random but targeted."
"No official statement has been made by any of the three houses involved. The White family has refused all press inquiries. The Voclain family denies any recognition of Cecil as kin. And the Trévér patriarch, Lord Charles Trévér, has not been seen publicly since the murders."
"The Auror Office has not confirmed whether foul play is suspected, though several anonymous sources within the Ministry suggest this may be an act of retribution — possibly connected to the recent death of Josh Alain, friend and Assistant of the Cecil's whose body was found in his home in late December."
"A Ministry insider speculates that internal strife or a family vendetta may be responsible. No arrests have been made, and the investigation remains ongoing."
Eira set the paper down slowly. Her cup of chocolate steamed untouched.
Emma watched her across the table. "They're already scrambling to spin it," she murmured. "That'll keep them quiet for a while."
Eira didn't answer at first. She looked back toward the letter from Fleur, folded in soft white.
"I'm not concerned about the press," she said quietly. "I'm more interested in what Lady Alina will do."
Emma arched a brow. "You think she'll retaliate?"
"She will. But she'll hesitate first. Losing a son does that."
She stood slowly, gathering the potion, the vial, and the velvet box to her chest.
⸻
Later that evening, Eira stood before her mirror, hair damp from a bath. It barely touched the nape of her neck now — still uneven from where she had cut it for her grandfather's funeral. A ritual of grief.
She uncorked the vial.
A faint shimmer filled the air, like something sacred being released.
She poured a few drops into her palm and gently worked it into her scalp. The cool sensation tingled at her roots, as though the potion whispered secrets directly to her skin.
And in the mirror, though nothing changed yet, she thought of Fleur's voice. Of the letter. Of warmth in a season of ice.
And once again, quietly, she smiled.