One Day Ago
The garden was silent—too silent—until the sharp, deliberate click of high heels shattered the stillness. A woman moved along the gravel path with the steady rhythm of someone who had no need to hurry. A wand hung loosely in her pale hand, and a faint, almost mocking whistle drifted into the smoky air. Her blonde hair shimmered faintly under the dim light, her cold blue eyes scanning the world ahead as though she owned it.
Behind her, flames devoured hedges and fountains. Smoke curled upward, blotting out the moon, the destruction following in her wake like an obedient hound.
A uniformed guard suddenly burst from the shadows, lunging to block her path. "Stop!" he barked.
She didn't even slow. With a flick of her wrist, the wand in her hand flashed. The spell was chantless, swift—almost beautiful in its cruelty. The man's body lifted off the ground as if snatched by an invisible giant, hurled back with such force that he slammed into the far wall and lay still. He hadn't lasted a second.
The woman tilted her head, smiling faintly.
"Oops. Sorry, my dear. No time to play—I have very little time."
The path widened, revealing a vast manor ahead, its grand entrance crowned by an ornate wooden sign: Welcome to the Voclain Family.
She stopped, smirking. "Oh, thank you for welcoming me."
A silent spell lashed from her wand, blasting the sign into splinters. Another followed, blowing apart the section where the family name had been carved.
Crossing the threshold, she was met by two house-elves who hurled themselves at her in a desperate bid to protect their home. She didn't even glance at them. A flicker of magic and they collapsed, their bodies reduced to little more than twisted remnants of blood and bone. No scream escaped them; her magic left no room for sound.
The interior of the manor was as opulent as whispered rumors claimed—polished marble floors, carved staircases, priceless portraits. She moved through it all with disdain, her spells ripping apart furniture, smashing vases, sending priceless heirlooms crashing to the ground. Each detonation echoed through the empty halls, a grim drumbeat.
"Maximilian!" she called, her voice ringing out in playful mockery. "Where are you? I came for you."
She paused, tilting her head with a cruel smile.
"Oh, that's right—you're with my daughter.....Sophie."
Her heels clicked steadily against the marble as she moved deeper into the manor, opening door after door, searching.
Eventually, she reached a long, dim corridor. At its far end, an open door spilled a faint, greenish light into the hall. A sharp, acrid scent filled the air—brewing potions. She smiled and began walking toward it. Her heels struck the floor with deliberate force, each step echoing in the silence.
Inside, a woman was bent over a cauldron, her back to the door. She stirred a simmering brew with a slow, precise rhythm. Without turning, she spoke.
"Alina Trévér. I didn't think you would dare to walk here on your own feet. What an insolent girl you are."
Alina's smile widened, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Well, you know, I was very bored. And I thought—why not do something amusing? So I decided to pay a little visit to the Voclain Mansion after all my ancestors also lived here. Now…" her eyes flicked toward the cauldron, "what are you cooking, Madam René Voclain?"
René did not turn around. Her hands moved with calm precision, adding powdered ingredients to the bubbling liquid. "Just making some experiments on new potions."
Alina exhaled a long, dramatic sigh. "Ah, in that regard, our families are quite similar—always brewing, always experimenting."
"I don't think so," René replied coolly. "The last time your family introduced a potion was when your aunt was head of the Trévér family. Since then, nothing of worth has come from your name."
Alina's expression hardened into a sneer. "We don't need to produce more. What we've already created is more than enough."
René's voice carried a trace of mockery. "Really? Or is it simply that your aunt was the last with the talent to make anything of value?"
"Oh, funny you should mention her," Alina said, her tone sharpening. "As far as I know, you and she were rather fond of each other. René Voclain—she spoke of you often when I was young. Said that during your time at Beauxbâtons, you were the most beautiful girl in the school. So much so Men would have killed for a chance to claim you. You rejected suitors from some of the most powerful families—why, even Orian Black, from the ancient House of Black, proposed to you, and you turned him down in front of everyone. One of the most powerful witches the Voclain family ever produced."
René's lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile. "I wasn't powerful. There were many powerful students. Your aunt was one of them."
Alina chuckled darkly. "No, you both were exceptional. I used to envy her fame. But she was always sad when she spoke of you—sad that you abandoned your potions, your life, for that man, Adrian. And for what? He Fucked another woman—your daughter's mother-in-law, wasn't it?"
The rhythmic sound of ingredients hitting the cauldron faltered. René's shoulders stiffened. "Why are you here, Alina? Why kill my people?"
Alina's smile thinned. "I came for the artifact."
René sighed. "Then you've wasted your time. There is no artifact."
"Cut the nonsense, old woman. Tell me where it is, or I'll kill you—slowly."
"Do what you will," René said, her voice steady. "It's gone. Stolen, during my husband's time."
Alina's eyes flashed with fury. "Do you expect me to believe that the very artifact that is the foundation of your family was stolen from you?"
"Yes," René said simply.
"Who took it? Where is it?"
"Even if I told you, you couldn't reach it. It's in the United States, in the hands of a powerful family there."
Alina took a step forward. "Which family?"
"I don't know. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."
Alina's gaze lingered on her for a long, unblinking moment. Then, with a dismissive flicker in her eyes, she said,
"Then you are of no use to me."
Alina straightened, her patience evaporating. "Very well. Pick up your wand, René Voclain. Out of respect for your past with my aunt, I won't kill you immediately. I'll give you the chance to fight me. Kill me, and you live. Fail, and you die."
René exhaled slowly. "It seems my time has come."
"Oh? Already giving up?"
Renée ignored the taunt. She drew a slender, violet wand and raised it. Alina, framed in the doorway, lifted hers in response.
They stood like that for a long moment—two powerful witches facing each other across a room crammed with volatile potions, rare ingredients, and dangerous brews. Outside, the fire still roared, casting flickering orange light into the corridor.
The manor was silent, save for the faint crackle of flames and the steady breathing of the two women who were about to decide each other's fate.