Snowflakes drifted like silver feathers across the high glass dome of the Beauxbâtons dueling arena, where winter had cast its breath even indoors. Eira stepped cautiously beside Fleur as they crossed the polished marble threshold. The grand space opened like a secret world—wide, echoing and elegant. Seats curved high above the arena, as if the ghosts of ages past still watched from the rafters.
In the center of the stage stood a group of students encircled in silent anticipation, their wands raised and their postures poised. Among them, one voice echoed loud and instructive, commanding the attention of the others.
"There," Fleur whispered, nodding toward the group, "that's Julian Trévér . The new heir of the Trévér family. He's been coming here a lot lately."
Eira's gaze locked on the tall, broad-shouldered young man standing with arrogant grace in the center of the circle. Blonde hair fell carelessly across his brow, and his smile—if it could be called that was more predatory than pleasant.
"So he's the new heir," Eira mused aloud, folding her arms. "Interesting."
Fleur's voice was sharper now. "I hate him. He's the most insufferable kind of persistent. Always asking me to marry him—publicly, privately, even in duels. He challenged me three times last year, and every time, he made it part of the terms: if he won, I'd have to be engaged to him."
"And let me guess…" Eira's lip curled.
"I crushed him every time," Fleur said flatly, flipping her hair. "But now that he's the heir, he's gotten even worse. He's already told me he plans to challenge me again. On Valentine's Day, no less."
"How… romantic." Eira's tone dripped with sarcasm.
Fleur gave her a side glance. "That's not even the worst of it. You remember his brother, right? Roman Trévér?"
Eira's expression didn't change, but her voice cooled. "The one who died… wasn't he the one responsible for some of the atrocities in France?"
Fleur's voice dropped into a venomous hiss. "He was a monster. A literal beast in human skin. What he did to some of the village witches… children… it's better he's dead. The magical world is cleaner without him."
Cleaner, Eira echoed silently, her thoughts curling like smoke.
'Well. Seems I did a very good job in cleaning out the filth.'
Just as the thought finished, a loud voice rang out behind them, mocking and unmistakably smug.
"Well, fancy seeing you here, English girl."
Both Fleur and Eira turned.
Julian Trévér approached with an oily smirk plastered across his face, his blonde hair glinting under the enchanted lights. He eyed Fleur first—his gaze heavy, invasive, brimming with lust—before turning his attention to Eira with thinly veiled disdain.
Eira raised a brow lazily. "I don't fancy seeing you at all, Trévér."
Julian clicked his tongue, amused. "What are you doing here? Far as I know, you're still second-grade. And this arena isn't open to second-years."
Eira tilted her head slightly, her expression one of feigned confusion. "Oh? And here I thought this place was for duelists, not clowns in heir costumes."
Gasps and muffled laughter rippled from the watching students. Julian's jaw clenched.
"I don't think you have the right to be here," he said with a forced smile. "Certainly not without permission."
"And I don't think you're in charge of the door, Julian," Eira replied sweetly. "Unless you've been promoted to Headmistress while I wasn't looking—which I doubt, seeing as you can barely win a duel without crying."
Julian's face darkened as he looked to Fleur. "Can you believe this? She walked in like she owns the place. She should be punished."
Fleur's expression was bored. "She's with me. I brought her. And Madame Maxime herself gave her clearance. Don't like it? Take it up with her."
For a moment, Julian looked as if he might argue—but something in Fleur's tone, or the weight of Maxime's name, pulled him back. He swallowed his protest and shifted tactics.
"I heard about your uncle," he said, his voice turning cold, eyes locked on Eira. "Cecil White, wasn't it? Saw the photo in the Le Cri Magique—hanged from balcony., poor thing. Died as he lived—weak, dirty, and pathetic. I think he pissed and shit himself while hanging."
The air chilled, even the snowflakes seemed to hang still. Students went quiet.
Eira smiled. Slowly and Dangerously.
"Well, what can I say?" she said lightly. "Your brother died beside him. As far as I recall, neither of them came out of that barn alive. But what really caught my attention was the rumor I heard afterward…"
Julian's brow furrowed.
Eira took a step closer, her voice mock-thoughtful. "I heard that Roman Trévér and my dear uncle Cecil were… quite close. Intimate, even. Some say they were in love. Cecil's lover—what was his name again? Oh yes—Josh. Poor Josh, murdered. By your brother, wasn't it? Apparently, Roman didn't like sharing."
More laughter spread through the crowd.
"And really," she added with a mock shrug, "who says Cecil was truly a White anyway? The truth is he was the illegitimate child of the Voclain family. Which, you know, makes the whole affair between him and Roman all the more scandalous."
Fleur began to giggle beside her, then outright laugh.
"Stop," she said dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "Two heirs, from feuding families, in love? It's so tragically romantic. Forbidden love, doomed from the start. Like a magical Romeo and Juliet."
Students chuckled, some whispering behind gloved hands. Julian stood frozen, mouth tight, eyes blazing with fury.
"Imagine," Eira continued, her voice all innocence, "the mighty Trévér and the disgraced Voclain, two pureblood lines united by—love. And then snuffed out. Not by their enemies, but by their own families, out of shame. That's the rumor, anyway."
"You dare—" Julian growled, stepping forward.
"I dare quite a lot, Trévér," Eira said, her smile sharp as a blade. "And don't act so outraged. It's not like I'm the one who decided to romance the enemy and leave the evidence in a bloodstained barn."
A ripple of laughter again. Some students tried to cover it; others didn't bother.
Julian's face had gone pale, then red. His wand hand twitched at his side.
"You will not mock my brother," he said darkly. "Or my family."
Fleur leaned in and whispered quickly, "Let's go. He's unhinged. And little bit dangerous."
But Eira's gaze never left Julian. Her voice lowered to a whisper of steel.
"Do you think I said those things to be funny?" she murmured. "I meant to provoke him."
Fleur blinked. "You're serious?"
"Oh, dead serious," Eira said. "I want him to snap. And I want him to duel me."
Julian's voice roared suddenly through the arena, echoing against the high enchanted ceiling.
"You English whore," he spat, tearing a glove from his hand and flinging it at her feet. "I challenge you to a duel. Right here. Right now. I will not have my family's name soiled by an English brat with a sharp tongue!"
The glove landed on the marble like a thunderclap.
Gasps rose from the crowd. Wands twitched. Excitement buzzed in the air like static.
Eira looked down at the glove, then back up—her eyes gleaming with something sharp and hungry.
"Oh," she said softly, smiling as she bent down to pick it up, "Julian, darling… it's about time someone taught you what happens when you try to dance with fire."
Fleur exhaled sharply behind her. "You're really going to do this?"
Eira turned slightly, her tone like silk over steel. "He threw the glove. If I walk away, he wins. And I'm not in the business of letting vermin win."
Julian paced backwards into the center of the arena, wand raised, fury glowing in his eyes.
Around them, the audience began to shuffle into seats. Voices murmured. Wagers were whispered. A silent referee stepped from the shadows, drawing a glowing white line across the marble floor.
The duel would begin soon.
Eira crossed the line.