Two days had passed since Eira's meeting with Isabella Voclain, and the school had once again settled into its familiar rhythm of academic bustle and gossip-filled corridors. The sky above the Beauxbâtons Château glimmered through enchanted glass ceilings, mirroring the early morning light as students trickled out of their dormitories.
Inside the Ombrelune Dorm hall, the air was still, punctuated only by the rustle of parchment. Eira sat curled into a reading chair near the window of her dorm, a warm cup of tea untouched beside her, her eyes scanning the fresh edition of Le Sorcier du Matin—France's leading wizarding daily.
Her brow furrowed the moment she reached the front-page headline.
Voclain–Trévér Feud Reaches Breaking Point
A Duel of Honor Proposed Amid Growing Tensions
The article was relentless in its coverage.
Apparently, Lord Maximilien Voclain had given a disastrous interview to a group of international magical correspondents the day before. In it, he'd scathingly denounced the Trévér family, calling them "a rabid pack of old blood dogs still chasing titles they never earned" and accusing them of using "dirty money, darker magic, and dirtier alliances."
Charles Trévér, never one to take a public insult without response, had retaliated in the traditional way: by formally submitting a duel of honor request through the Magical Judiciary Council. The letter had been magically duplicated and posted outside his estate for the press to see.
The whole thing was spiraling. Quickly.
Eira sighed deeply, setting the paper aside. "Idiots," she muttered but smiled . "All of them , just like I wanted."
She stood, brushed a curl from her face, and made her way downstairs, slipping out of the Ombrelune wing and into the Ombrelune's gardens. The air was still crisp from last night's snow , but the snow of the southern courtyard had already begun to melt beneath the morning sun.
She thought of her aunt. Of the subtle lines around her eyes. Of how fragile old bonds felt when touched after so long.
But her thoughts were interrupted.
"Eira!" a voice called.
She turned to see Mia Saint-Clair, a fellow Ombrelune, approaching with urgency in her step. Her braid was messy, and her prefect badge was half-clipped to her robes.
"Something wrong?" Eira asked.
Mia slowed as she neared her. "It's Marin. He's in the hospital wing."
Eira blinked. "What happened?"
"He was beaten. Pretty badly. Face like a bruised cauldron. I thought you should know… I mean, you're one of the only people who doesn't want to kill him."
"Where is he now?"
"Infirmary. Madame Auriel has him lying flat with three salves and one broken nose."
Without another word, Eira turned and made her way to the hospital wing.
⸻
The hospital wing smelled of herbs and disinfecting charms. Rows of beds stood neatly lined, though only one was occupied.
There, sprawled beneath a thick quilt, lay Marin—his face a colorful disaster of purples and greens, one eye nearly swollen shut. A cooling rune shimmered faintly on his forehead.
He looked like a fallen garden gnome after a bar brawl.
"Merlin," Eira whispered, pulling a chair closer to his bedside. "What happened to you?"
Marin grinned lopsidedly, which only made him wince. "Oh, you know. Life."
Eira sat down, arms folded. "Marin, who did this?"
He shrugged weakly. "Don't know. Didn't see them. Maybe one, maybe three. Could've been trolls. Honestly, I blacked out halfway through."
She stared at him. "Was it… one of the boyfriends? Of those girls you were flirting with?"
At that, Marin turned his head away, as if the ceiling was suddenly very interesting.
Eira groaned. "I told you. I told you they would hit you. That someone would come after you. But no, you just had to flirt with anything in a skirt and a hair charm!"
Marin said nothing.
Then, softly, with something between pain and pride, he said, "Well… sometimes, for the pursuit of beauty, there must be sacrifice."
Eira buried her face in her hands. "You can't be serious , next what are you going to do ? go after them."
"Oh, I'm not going after them," Marin added quickly. "I've got my eyes set on their girlfriends now."
There was a long silence.
Eira's lips twitched. "You are insane."
"I'm romantic," he replied, smiling like a war hero who had survived for love.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
Marin gave a painful chuckle, then winced again. "Probably. But I'll die with style."
Eira leaned back, caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. "You're the most shameless person I've ever met."
"Ah, I see I've claimed first place on your list of shameless individuals—since I bypassed your uncle, of course. I do aim to impress and see I impressed you."
She shook her head. "You'll aim yourself into a coma at this rate."
Marin closed his eyes, content. "If I do, leave roses on my bedside. Black ones. Dramatic. Very me."
Eira sat quietly beside him for a while, watching the sunlight drift across the ward's tiled floor. Beneath all the ridiculous bravado, there was a kind of purity to Marin—reckless, infuriating, but somehow loyal to the strange, chaotic rhythm of his own heart.
"Rest," she said at last. "And try not to seduce anyone for the next twenty-four hours."
"No promises, well madam Auriel is charming middle age woman so I can't promise that," he murmured.
Eira stood, leaving him with a smirk and a faint shake of her head. The world outside was full of dangerous duels and political storms.
But here, in this absurd moment, she let herself laugh.