The echo of ancient boots and silken heels clicked against the marbled halls of the French Ministry of Magic as Eira and Madame Maxime walked in silence. The tension of the courtroom still clung to the air like stale incense—powerful, heavy, and impossible to ignore. The corridor was lined with enchanted portraits that now seemed too quiet, their eyes watching the pair with an uncanny awareness.
Only when they reached a less crowded atrium did Madame Maxime finally speak.
"Don't you think you went a little overboard, mademoiselle?" she asked in her deep, accented voice, her eyes stern yet not unkind. "You are new to the leadership of the White family. Many pure-blood families across Europe—especially here in France—will not forget what you said in that courtroom. They might retaliate."
Eira glanced up at her, face unreadable, lips pressed into a soft line. Then she smiled. Not mischievously or sarcastically. Just… calmly.
"Well, Madame Maxime, if they had summoned a twelve-year-old girl to that hearing, maybe I wouldn't have said half of what I did. Maybe I would've been quiet. Respectful, even. But they didn't ask for a child. They summoned the Matriarch of the White family."
She stopped walking and turned to face the taller woman.
"You know better than anyone… that title doesn't care about age. It doesn't care about school, or politics, or how many years I've lived. It only cares about legacy. About blood. About will.
If I had backed down today—if I had bowed my head before those pompous families and let their verdict pass without defiance—then the White name would've started to fade. Respect would've withered. Fear would've vanished. Even those allied with us would begin to wonder if we were still worth standing beside. And the vultures? They would've circled, waiting for the moment to strike.
I had to show them. All of them.
That even if I am the last White, with no elders behind me, no powerful cousins or political puppeteers to speak for me, I still stand. Alone, maybe—but unshaken.
Because if I had knelt today, they would have seen it as the end of the White family's era. A final, quiet surrender. And once they smell weakness, they do what they always do—what they did to the Blacks.
You remember that, don't you? Just two years ago, the same families who once whispered in reverence when a Black entered the room were the first to tear that legacy apart. They tried to picked it clean—auctioned off estates, forged claims to inheritances, even dared to rename properties that had stood for centuries.
I won't let that happen to us.
I won't let the same hands that now stretch toward me with false smiles be the ones that loot my family's name once I'm gone.
Not while I breathe.
And certainly not while I carry the name White."
Madame Maxime exhaled slowly and placed her large hand gently on Eira's shoulder. Her gaze softened.
"Elijah would've been proud of you today. You didn't let the name of your family fall into disgrace after his death. You stood tall. You protected its honour."
Eira's smile warmed just a little. "Thank you. And thank you for accompanying me today."
"Of course," Maxime replied at once. "You are still my student, Eira. And no matter what position you hold out there,"—she nodded back in the direction of the courtroom—"within these walls, I will always walk beside you."
They resumed walking.
"Shall we return to school now?" Madame Maxime asked.
Eira hesitated.
"Actually… could I go to the White Family Manor? I need to speak with Emma."
Maxime tilted her head. "Ah, very well. There's a fireplace linked to the Floo Network just around the corner. Do you have your family's insignia—?"
She caught herself. "Oh, right. You don't need it anymore. Go on then. Use the network."
Eira bowed slightly in thanks, stepped through the velvet-draped corridor, and disappeared into the flames with a quiet, "White Manor, Paris."
⸻
The White Family's ancestral manor in Paris exuded old elegance—quiet stone halls filled with portraits of ancestors whose eyes shimmered with enchantments, oil paintings that whispered when no one listened, and the scent of old paper, ancient ink, and burned cinnamon from the fireplace that rarely went cold.
Eira emerged from the hearth and immediately tapped the small, circular magical device fastened to her coat. A faint click. A glowing pulse. Her signal had been sent. A message, just for Emma.
She walked to her private office, a richly dark chamber with crimson tapestries and polished shelves stacked with enchanted volumes. She sank into the high-backed chair behind her desk and crossed her legs, waiting.
An hour later, the door opened with a cautious creak, and Emma Bloom stepped inside.
Her cheeks were flushed, her coat unevenly buttoned, and her short hair—usually neat —was messy which made her look more feminine . But her wand hand was steady, and her eyes swept the room immediately before locking on Eira.
Eira smirked as she took in the disheveled state of Emma before her. With a playful glint in her eyes, she said,
"You're an absolute mess. I hope I'm not interrupting something—judging by the way you look, you were clearly in the middle of some… vigorous physical activity."
"You're safe, my lady," she said with a sharp sigh of relief, stepping forward. "And please—don't joke like that. I don't have time for… those kinds of activities."
She paused, her expression shifting to something more serious.
"Forgive me. The last time you used the emergency indicator… well, let's just say the outcome wasn't exactly pleasant."
Eira chuckled lightly. "Relax, Emma. Come, sit. I have something very interesting to share."
Emma approached, her brow furrowed as she lowered herself into the chair opposite.
"Is there a problem, my lady?" she asked, her voice lower now. Alert. Wary.
Eira folded her arms. "I was at the French Ministry of Magic today. In a courtroom."
Emma's throat made a dry sound—somewhere between a swallow and a gasp.
"What?"
She leaned forward. "That's impossible. There was no formal summons. No political communication. I wasn't informed of anything! If someone wants to speak with the head of House White, they must—must—issue a proper magical protocol request through me. There are rules!"
"I know," Eira said calmly. "But it wasn't exactly the Ministry's idea. It was a gathering. A farce of nobility. The Trévérs. The Voclains. A few other foreign names too. They called it a 'hearing.' But it wasn't one."
Emma was silent for a moment, processing. Then her eyes darkened.
"What did they want?"
"To humiliate me. To strip our holdings. To expel me from France. To weaken the White family."
"They did what?"
Eira explained—coldly and clearly. The accusations, the false testimony, the absence of Ministry officials. The declarations. The judgment. Her defiance.
By the time she finished, Emma was nearly shaking with restrained fury.
"They dared to put you in the defendant's seat? To declare you a criminal without a representative present? Without a legal envoy?"
"They treated me as if I were nothing more than a child who'd wandered into power by mistake."
Emma stood up, pacing now. "This is outrageous. An embarrassment to international magical law. Even the Spanish follow protocol better than this!"
Eira watched her quietly for a moment. Then she asked, "Emma… how did they know?"
Emma stopped.
"Know what, my lady?"
"That the White family was behind the sabotage. The conflict between Voclain and Trévér. The things we did in the Americas. The funding. The arms."
Emma's face tightened. "They couldn't have. I never used the family name. Not once. No correspondence, no money trail. I made sure of it. As far as the world knows, the sabotage came from independent agents."
"Then…" Eira said slowly, "why did Maximilian act like he knew? Why now?"
Emma blinked.
"Perhaps… he needed a distraction," Eira muttered, eyes narrowing. "Maybe I was just convenient. Maybe both he and Charles Trévér saw an opportunity. They've been at war for months. Now suddenly they sit side by side and look at me?"
Emma nodded slowly. "You're right. He may have unintentionally told the truth—about us. But he wanted the focus shifted. To you. To the Whites."
Eira leaned back. "Which means…"
Emma said it first. "The White family is now officially involved. In both murders. In the entire feud."
Eira tapped her fingers on the desk. "But why now? Just two days ago, the Trévérs and Voclains were gutting each other. Then, suddenly, they unite to bring me into it?"
Emma frowned. "Because they want to use us. The White family is powerful, but led by a young, supposedly inexperienced matriarch. They thought they could manipulate you. Use your legacy. Control your influence."
Eira's eyes glittered now, not with fear—but with strategy.
"Well then," she said softly, "it's time we make the fight bloodier than before."
Emma raised an eyebrow, her voice laced with both disbelief and caution.
"Are you suggesting we intentionally stoke more fire between them? Even after everything that's happened, my lady?"
"I want them to proceed with their Duel of Honor. The one they submitted to the Ministry. I want them to go through with it."
Emma narrowed her eyes. "You want them to kill each other."
"I want to witness it," Eira said coolly. "Charles Trévér and Maximilian Voclain. Let them fight. Let them bleed. Let them prove who deserves the ashes of this feud."
Emma sat down again, lips tight in thought.
"If that's what you want, my lady… But we'll need to make it more than just a duel. We'll need to make it public. Strategic and Loud."
Eira smiled coldly. "Exactly. I want a juicy fight. One that overshadows their attempt to manipulate me. One that reminds them of what the White family really is."
Emma's eyes gleamed. "Then it's time we remind the magical world what it means to provoke House White."
Eira stood. Walked to the wide enchanted window. Outside, clouds were gathering over the Paris skyline.
"I am very excited ," she murmured. "To see them in a Duel arena wands at each other's throats."