The sky was overcast when Eira stepped out of the carriage, the ash-laced wind catching her coat. The scent of charred stone and burnt magic hung heavy in the air, clinging to the ruins like a curse. Before her stood what remained of the once-beautiful Maison Blanche—a proud testament to her family's legacy, now reduced to scorched timbers and smoking rubble.
What had once been a marble foyer, with gilded staircases and enchanted chandeliers, was now an open grave of architecture. The white stone exterior was blackened, the elegant balconies broken. Furniture was warped by heat, magical light fixtures shattered and lifeless. Faint embers still crackled in corners, despite the efforts of fire charms cast days ago.
Emma Bloom, her constant companion and guardian, stood beside her, her wand tucked in her coat, sharp eyes scanning the surroundings like a hawk.
Eira walked slowly into the remnants of the lobby, her boots crunching over cracked tiles and broken glass. Her eyes moved across the ruins with painful calm.
From the far corner, a soot-covered figure emerged—Madame Rousseau, the hotel manager. Her normally immaculate hair was tied back in a simple braid, and her tailored robes were singed at the hem. Her hands trembled faintly as she approached.
"Lady White," she greeted, her voice strained. "I—I'm so sorry. We tried to stop them. They came at night. There was no warning, no chance to defend. They set the upper floors ablaze before we could cast a shield."
Eira stopped before her and gently touched her arm.
"It's all right, Rousseau. You're safe—that's what matters."
"But the hotel—this place—it's your family's name."
Eira gave a soft sigh, her voice quiet but firm. "Brick and wood can be rebuilt. Lives cannot. No guests were harmed, no staff killed. That is what matters most to me."
Madame Rousseau bowed her head, blinking away tears. "There are a few injured. Burns, mostly. One of the housekeepers inhaled smoke."
"Then those injuries will be covered," Eira said immediately. "Medical costs, full wages. No one here will suffer for this attack."
The woman looked up in surprise. "Truly, my lady?"
"You've all served the White family with loyalty and dignity. I will not forget that," Eira said. "Everyone will receive a paid leave. One month—longer if needed. Rest. Be with your families. When the hotel is rebuilt, you will return to your positions, and you will walk through those doors again with pride. This I promise you."
A murmur of emotion escaped Madame Rousseau's throat. "You honor us, my lady."
Eira gave her a small smile, though her eyes remained steeled.
"Honor is easy to give. It is duty that must be earned—and all of you have earned it a hundred times over."
Behind them, a small group of staff stood watching, their faces pale, their uniforms marked with soot. When Eira turned to them, her voice carried across the burned-out hall with clarity and grace.
"This fire will not define us. It is only a shadow. And like all shadows, it will pass."
A hush fell over the group. For a moment, there was nothing but the whisper of wind and the quiet collapse of a scorched beam nearby.
⸻
As Eira and Emma stepped back outside, the world beyond the ruins was waiting.
Journalists.
They came like crows—young, ink-stained, desperate for a quote. Some wore floating quills above their shoulders, enchanted to record every word. Others simply shouted questions, their voices loud, intrusive, sharp.
"Lady White! Lady White! Over here!"
Eira paused on the cracked front steps, her posture poised. Emma moved slightly forward, protective.
"Lady White, can you confirm if this was a targeted attack by the Trévér family?"
Eira offered only a slight glance, then another voice cut in.
"What is your response to your uncle's death—Cecil White? Was it an assassination?"
Eira turned, and her expression shifted into something soft yet sorrowful. Her tone was measured, and perfectly practiced.
"I was deeply saddened by my uncle's passing," she said. "Though we had our disagreements in the past, we were not enemies. We were family. And family does not erase bond with bitterness."
There was a murmur among the crowd, pens scribbling fast, quick glances exchanged.
"I swear before all of you," Eira continued, "I will uncover the one responsible for my uncle's murder. And I will bring them to the Ministry of Magic, where justice will be served—not for vengeance, but for truth."
More flashes, more enchanted cameras.
Then came the question everyone had been waiting to ask.
"What about the Maison Blanche? Burned by the Trévér family—will the White family retaliate?"
Eira's expression shifted again—cool, but not cold.
"I will not comment on the Trévér family's involvement," she said carefully. "I have no known conflict with them. I do not know why they would target a White family property. Perhaps they mistook this hotel as part of the Voclain holdings. If so, it was a tragic and dangerous error."
Another pause. Then she added, voice rising slightly with purpose:
"But I will forgive this mistake. Once."
A ripple ran through the journalists.
Eira stepped forward slightly, and her next words were crisp and clear.
"If another White family property is harmed—if a servant, an employee, or a child under my care is touched—then the Trévér family will answer for it. And they will not face me alone. They will face the British Ministry and British wizardry Community."
The words hung like thunder.
A young reporter stepped forward, pushing his quill closer.
"Lady White, is that a threat?"
Eira met his eyes. Calm. Unblinking.
"No. It is not a threat. It is a warning."
She let the silence that followed settle like a storm about to break. Then she turned to Emma.
"Come. We're done here."
Together, they descended the broken steps and walked through the crowd, which parted like a sea before them. Flashbulbs sparked, whispers rose, but no one dared call out again.