Eira leaned slightly over the railing of the high viewing platform. Her green eyes tracked the slow build of activity around the dueling platform, now alight with protective enchantments. Fleur stood beside her, arms crossed gently, and Emma stood calmly just behind, hands clasped behind her back.
Then, They turned to the voice broke through the hum of murmuring nobles.
"Eira."
Eira turned to the familiar voice .
At the edge of the marble steps leading to their box stood Isabella Voclain, dressed in formal Ministry robes layered with the insignia of her office. Regal, composed—and yet her posture carried the weight of recent days. Her cool gaze met Eira's with something softer than pride. Something maternal.
"You came, Aunt. I was under the impression you didn't wish to be involved," Eira said, her lips tugging at the edge of a smile.
"Of course I came, Even if it wasn't by choice." Isabella replied, ascending the final steps. "Though not as a member of the Voclain family—but as the Minister of the French Magical Government."
Isabella's gaze flicked to Fleur with a small nod of recognition, and then to the poised woman standing behind Eira.
"Is this her?" she asked.
Eira stepped to the side. "Yes. Aunt Isabella, this is Emma Bloom. My assistant—and the reason the White family didn't collapse last few months."
Emma bowed slightly. "It's an honor, Minister Voclain."
Isabella appraised her silently for a breath, then extended her hand. "And my personal thanks, Ms. Bloom. You've done more for Eira than most blood relatives could have."
Emma accepted the handshake with quiet poise. "She's not just an heir—she's a legacy. And I'm proud to stand at her side."
Isabella offered a rare smile—small and fleeting, the kind she reserved only for Eira.
"Yes, I've heard quite a bit about you," she said, turning to Emma. "Particularly your work with the British Magical Ministry over the past few months—especially in managing trade agreements involving White family products. It's impressive."
Emma met her gaze, holding it for a moment before smiling.
"Thank you for the compliment, Miss Isabella. I appreciate it."
Isabella's smile deepened, just slightly.
"Oh, don't call me 'Miss.' That makes me sound like some fifteen-year-old schoolgirl, I am old."
Emma tilted her head, her voice light with a teasing edge.
"Then you shouldn't look like you're barely out of your twenties. It's misleading."
Isabella let out a quiet laugh—soft, rare, and real.
"Flattery already? We've only just met."
Eira blinked, momentarily thrown off by the scene unfolding before her. Two of the most serious, composed women she knew—her usually solemn aunt and her ever-efficient assistant—were suddenly smiling and laughing like old friends at a garden party.
It was strange. Just minutes ago, Isabella had worn the weight of the world on her shoulders, her expression drawn and distant. Now, with Emma standing before her, she looked lighter—almost amused.
Eira narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to make sense of it.
"Ahm… that's weird," she muttered under her breath.
They all turned toward the arena again. The murmurs had quieted.
A lone figure descended into the dueling ring—an old wizard in golden robes, his long white beard tied in three knots. He raised his wand, magnifying his voice across the massive coliseum.
"Wizards and witches of Europe and beyond," the officiator announced, "by decree of the French Ministry of Magic and by the laws of ancient magical houses, this is a recognized and binding Duel of Honor."
He waited a beat, letting the words settle like a fog over the audience.
"There shall be no use of the three Unforgivable Curses. No dark rituals. No soul-binding. All other forms of magical combat are permitted."
A pause.
"If a duelist falls unconscious, or yields, the duel is over. If a duelist dies…" He paused. "It will be considered honorable. No blood-debt may be claimed."
Fleur leaned closer to Eira. "That's practically permission for murder."
"It is," Emma whispered. "Draped in ceremony, but at its heart, nothing's changed. Historically, these duels often ended in death—so believe me, everyone here is hoping to witness one."
The officiator lowered his wand and stepped back.
A sudden flourish of silver magic burst from the east tunnel.
Maximilian Voclain entered the arena, flanked by a pair of Voclain retainers. He walked tall, his expression carved from granite. His robes were darker today—storm-grey, near black, stitched with the Voclain crest and lined in silver thread. His wand, old and rigid, was held in his right hand as he marched to the dueling platform's center.
From the crowd came polite applause, mostly from the French noble bloc. Others simply watched in silence.
Then came the west gate.
The Trévér crest shone crimson as a new figure stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in formal dueling robes dyed deep scarlet.
Charles Trévér.
Not Alina.
Charles.
Maximilian's face changed immediately.
He stepped forward, raising his wand—not to attack, but to signal protest.
"I object," he called, his voice magically amplified. "This is a duel between houses. I expected to face the real head of the Trévér family, Alina Trévér, not her… husband."
Charles laughed as he strode forward, not even bothering to acknowledge Maximilian's insult. His wand was casually spinning in his fingers. His dueling robe was loose at the collar, a subtle show of disdain.
"You expected to duel my wife?" Charles said, smirking. "How charming. You always did prefer picking fights with women."
A ripple of laughter passed through the audience—quiet, uncomfortable.
Maximilian's jaw tightened. "Your wife is the true head of the Trévér family—you're nothing more than a commodity. Everyone here knows the truth: the real power behind the name is Alina Trévér, not you."
He took a slow step forward, voice colder. "You may play the public figure, but those who hold real power… they see it clearly. You're a puppet. And we all know who truly issued the challenge."
Charles stopped a few paces from him. "And you were foolish enough to think she would get her hands dirty for you. This is between men, Maximilian. Face me. Or flee."
The officiator raised his wand again. "So long as the representative bears the family name and was named by the House, the duel is valid. Your protest is denied, Lord Voclain."
Maximilian stared at Charles, fury brimming beneath the surface.
Back in the stands, Isabella exhaled softly. "Alina is clever—dangerously cunning. She'd never risk her life unless the outcome was certain. And more than that, she has no interest in the spotlight. She moves best from the shadows."
Emma added quietly, "He knows. Maximilian expected to humiliate Alina—but this flips the narrative. It also removes a dangerous variable. Killing a husband in a duel is distasteful, yes—but killing a wife? Especially when she's the true power behind the family? That would've been catastrophic."
Eira nodded, eyes still locked on the arena.
But Charles wasn't done.
He stepped forward again, a gleam in his eye. "Tell me, Maximilian," he said loud enough for all to hear, "do you plan to dedicate this duel to your father?"
Maximilian froze.
Charles grinned, the smile sharp and merciless.
"Ah, I almost forgot—remind me, which one was your father again? The Voclain patriarch… or that charming traveling alchemist your mother 'discovered' on her little tour of magical potion near the Swiss border?"He let out a low, mocking laugh. "Your whole family's a mess—truly. A mother who couldn't keep her legs closed, a father who spread himself across every noble bed from France to England. And the bastards? Scattered across the continent like seeds in spring. Some noble legacy, indeed."
The entire arena stirred.
Maximilian's eyes narrowed into slits.
Charles tilted his head with mock concern, his voice dripping with pity. "I suppose that's why you and your dear sister never married—too much family baggage, or perhaps no one wanted to risk the bloodline. But tell me, Maximilian… how do you keep your little Maxi in check these days? Nearing forty, no wife, no heirs—do you tire of your own hand, or have the house elves learned to keep quiet?"
Eira turned slightly and glanced at Isabella.
But Isabella's face didn't change. Her expression was eerily calm—stone-like.
Fleur leaned in slightly, her voice low and uneasy. "How can a lord—one who calls himself noble—speak like that? It's vulgar… disturbing. Or maybe," she added, eyes narrowing toward the arena, "he's playing with Maximilian's mind. Trying to unnerve him before the duel even begins."
Isabella said nothing. Her face was still, detached—she looked utterly unbothered, as though the insults and theatrics held no weight in her world.
Charles began to circle slowly in the dueling ring, his voice carrying with practiced sharpness.
"You strutted into that Ministry hearing like a king, Maximilian. Denied your own niece. Lied to your people. Tried to seize what was never yours."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "And for what? For this moment? For this stage? Is this what your pride bought you?"
He tilted his head. "It's a shame your father's ghost won't be here to watch your disgrace."
Maximilian raised his wand just slightly—like a wolf baring its fangs.
The officiator stepped between them.
"This duel is to begin at my signal, not before. Final words before combat may be spoken, but no casting until the ring is declared active."
The arena buzzed with electricity.
Back in the stands, Eira folded her arms, her gaze never leaving the arena floor.
"This is going to be brutal," she said quietly. "After all that trash talk… one of them won't be walking out alive."
"They're trying to destroy each other's reputations before the spells even fly," Emma said.
Isabella nodded grimly. "This isn't about honor. It never was. This is about erasure. The winner won't just claim victory—they'll bury the other name."
Fleur watched the arena, her fingers gently brushing against Eira's. "I hate this," she murmured. "It feels less like a duel and more like some brutal Muggle war—both sides trying to erase the other completely."
Eira glanced at her, then spoke softly, "I doubt it. The Trévérs didn't send their true head—so it's hard to believe this duel will leave any lasting damage on their side."
Her gaze shifted back to the ring. "But the Voclains… I'm not so sure they'll walk away unscathed."
Down below, the officiator raised both arms, and the enchantments over the platform began to pulse.
The runes glowed bright gold.
The air thickened with magic.
"On my signal…" the officiator said.
Maximilian raised his wand.
Charles raised his.
The crowd leaned forward.