The wind howled across the cliffs of Caudebec, where the sea crashed violently against the rocks below. High atop the jagged coast stood the Arena of Caudebec, a half-ruined coliseum older than most countries, resurrected by layers of enchantment for the occasion. Its towering arches were reinforced with gleaming spells. The cracked stone had been temporarily mended with ancient runes, and translucent domes shimmered in the air, waiting to contain whatever violence would soon erupt.
It was not just a duel.
It was spectacle, tradition, and warning all in one.
From above, enchanted banners rippled in the wind, bearing the sigils of the Voclain and Trévér families. A third flag, neutral and golden, bore the seal of the French Ministry of Magic—a symbol of their hollow attempt at control.
Carriages, apparition sparks, and flaming Floo portals flared across the plateau as pure-blood families from across the world arrived in waves. The entrance of the arena was lined with tall, gilded arches—each manned by Ministry guards checking invitations and validating crests. But no one was turned away.
The world had come to watch.
⸻
Eira White stood near the edge of the cliff, her silver-white robes fluttering in the wind. She watched the sea churn far below as Fleur fastened her cloak around her shoulders.
"Are you nervous?" Fleur asked softly.
"No," Eira said. Then, with a breath, "I more excited than to be nervous actually."
They had arrived moments ago, escorted by two discreet White family agents who had vanished back into the shadows. Eira wore the House White formal mantle—a high-collared cloak adorned with silver filigree, and a pin forged from White family iron, an artifact older than the French monarchy. Fleur stood beside her in elegant midnight-blue robes, her blonde hair braided in graceful coils behind her head. She looked every bit the diplomat's daughter—but to Eira, she simply looked like safety and beauty, the one person she had chosen to bring with her as a companion.
The two girls walked hand in hand toward the arena entrance.
As they neared the grand gates, voices began to rise. Witches and wizards in rich robes filled the plaza. The Rossi family from Italy, the Müllers from Austria, the de Vries clan from Belgium—their crests marked on enchanted sashes and embroidered scarves. Some gave Eira brief nods of recognition; others watched her with veiled suspicion.
But the whispers were constant.
"There she is…"
"White family…"
"The girl who was crowned at just eleven years old to lead the White family…"
"Let her flaunt her arrogance for now—but once she falls into the hands of a man, she'll be reduced to nothing more than a bearer of heirs. He will become the true patriarch."
"A little reminder of her place—perhaps the seed of a man—will humble her soon enough."
Eira didn't spare them a glance—they were beneath her, irrelevant, like shadows flickering at the edge of something far greater.
Fleur offered Eira a gentle, reassuring smile—but the moment her eyes shifted to the man who had spoken, all warmth vanished. She stared him down with a cold, furious intensity that could've frozen blood. Her expression held no words, only judgment—sharp, unforgiving, and unflinching. The man, realizing too late that his comment had been heard, quickly turned away, his face flushing as he tried to hide from the weight of her gaze
⸻
Inside, the arena was vast and ancient. Circular stone tiers encircled the magically warded center. Rows of seats stretched high into the air, layered like a Roman amphitheater. At the heart of it all, a circular platform of enchanted stone awaited the duel—carved with runes designed to absorb and redirect spells.
Every seat held a name. And the most coveted ones were already filled.
Madame Maxime stood near the western balcony, speaking with a small delegation from the Swiss magical federation. She spotted the girls immediately and excused herself.
"Ah, you've arrived," she said, her giant form towering above them. "Eira, Fleur—good. You're seated with me in the Beauxbâtons diplomatic row. First tier."
"Lovely," Fleur said, polite as ever.
"Try not to start a war," Maxime muttered to Eira, only half-joking.
"I'm only here to watch," Eira said sweetly. "After all, it's not every day one witnesses a duel that might end up in the history books."
"Yes," Maxime said dryly. "And I'm the Tooth Fairy."
They climbed the steps into the arena's inner levels, passing other noble families as they went. Several turned their heads. Fleur leaned in and whispered, "They're watching your every move, you know. After that hearing, you've become famous—and now everyone's waiting to see what the girl who holds the power of the White family will do next."
Eira needed no reminder. The stares that clung to her dripping with interest, lust, and hate—were impossible to ignore.
But as they entered the tiered balcony assigned to Beauxbâtons and the neutral families, she paused.
Because someone else had just arrived.
A tall wizard in his sixties, wrapped in layered green robes trimmed with gold, walked slowly up the aisle. His presence drew whispers. Not for his wealth or his title, but for his name.
Thaddeus Rowen.
Of the House Rowen, one of the most ancient American magical families. Descendants of the legendary Twelve Aurors—those who stood against Grindelwald in the United States when his influence spread westward during the 1940s.
His arrival wasn't just political.
It was historical.
Eira straightened unconsciously as the man approached her.
He gave her a small nod. "Miss White."
"Lord Rowen," Eira replied with a courteous dip of her head.
"You remind me of your grandfather," Rowen said, eyes sharp beneath a head of salt-and-pepper hair. "Elijah was… stubborn. And clever."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is." His voice was rough but calm. "He once beat me in an international council debate by quoting French philosophers I'd never read. I never forgave him."
Fleur chuckled softly beside Eira.
Rowen's gaze turned thoughtful. "I watched the news of your hearing. That was a brave thing you did. Reckless, perhaps, but brave."
"In our blood courses both recklessness and power, intertwined like fire and storm."
"Good," Rowen nodded. "We need more of that. The world is changing, Miss White. Faster than most of these fools are willing to admit."
He gestured subtly to the other noble boxes around them—stiff-backed wizards in fur-lined cloaks, murmuring about politics and honor, none of them younger than fifty.
"They think today's duel is tradition. A symbolic clash of pride. But it's more than that. This is the beginning of something new. Lines are being drawn. Families will either rise or disappear."
Eira met his eyes. "And you? Your words suggest that to climb higher, one must clear the sky of every other star."
He smiled. "That's right. One star must rise above the rest—so radiant it eclipses the weak. And to reach that brilliance, it must consume the lesser lights, one by one."
Eira tilted her head slightly, a faint smile on her lips. "Let me guess—you think you're meant to be that brilliant star?"
Lord Rowen smiled, the corners of his mouth curling with quiet confidence. "It's only natural for a man to have ambition. But who said I must rise alone? If you agree, we could make that star burn even brighter—together."
He paused, his gaze lingering. "But perhaps… that's a conversation for another time."
With a final nod, he moved on toward his reserved seat near the American delegation. A handful of younger witches and wizards followed him—his kin, no doubt—watching Eira with curiosity and quiet respect.
Fleur leaned closer. "He's powerful, no doubt. But all that talk about stars and devouring others? That was… weird."
"I know," Eira murmured. "A man with ideas like his isn't just ambitious—he's dangerous."
⸻
As the hour neared, the arena filled with murmurs and movement. The air grew heavy with magic and tension. Floating lights ignited overhead like miniature suns, casting golden light over the ring. At the center, the dueling platform began to shimmer—runic activation glowing brighter.
A hush fell across the stone rows as the Voclain delegation entered from the east gate.
Maximilian Voclain walked like a storm dressed in regal grey. His robes bore the ancestral Voclain falcon crest, and his wand was holstered in silver at his side. He did not look nervous or angry just colder.
Behind him followed other Voclain family members—lesser branches, bodyguards, retainers. They took their seats near the ring with precision and poise.
Moments later, from the opposite gate, came the Trévér family.
Alina Trévér walked in full red. Her eyes were sharper than knives, and her expression unreadable. Charles followed behind her, his face stony and unreadable.
The dueling platform activated fully—glowing with blue and white lines. The spells were ready. The air shimmered with the tension of bound wards, designed to protect spectators from stray curses and to seal in the fury of the battle.
No announcement had yet been made. But the stage was set.
"Have they named the Trévér champion yet?" Fleur asked, glancing around.
"No," Eira said. "They're hiding it. Maybe to throw Maximilian off."
"Or because they're arguing," Maxime added from behind them. "I wouldn't be surprised. The Trévér family has lost too much. They're desperate."
Just then, a quiet ripple moved through the crowd.
Someone was arriving—late.
From the private entrance near the west balcony, Emma Bloom emerged. Dressed in crisp dark robes, her expression poised, her gaze scanning the arena with razor-sharp focus. She moved like a shadow, graceful and silent, until she reached Eira's side.
"Sorry for the delay my lady," Emma said smoothly.
"You made it," Eira said with a small smile. "Now it's officially a party. Though… tell me you brought popcorn."
Emma cast a glance toward the dueling ring. "Forgive me, my lady, but this is hardly the moment for humor. And… where is your aunt? I've yet to see her."
And then, a voice came from behind them—calm, composed, unmistakable.
"I am here."
But before they could turn around,
The arena's central platform flared with light as the officiator—an aged dueling master in gold-trimmed robes—stepped into the circle and raised his wand for silence.