The room was a storm waiting to break.
René Voclain stood amid shelves of rare ingredients, the air thick with the acrid bite of brewing potions. Shadows clung to the corners, shifting in the firelight spilling from the corridor. Her violet wand was steady, her gaze cold and unflinching.
In the doorway, Alina Trévér leaned slightly to one side, like a predator amused by its prey. The tip of her wand glimmered faintly, the magic there wound tight and ready to strike.
For a long moment, neither moved. Only the slow, synchronized breathing of the two women broke the silence.
Then—Alina struck first.
Her wand cut the air in a sharp, diagonal arc, and a wave of violet flame erupted, silent and searing. René didn't flinch—her hand moved almost lazily, snapping a shield into existence with no incantation. The flames broke apart against it, licking the walls and scattering sparks across the floor.
Before the embers faded, René countered. She thrust her wand forward, unleashing a spinning disk of compressed wind and silver sparks. It tore through the air toward Alina, the force enough to splinter wood in its path.
Alina side-stepped, her heels scraping against the stone. With a flick of her fingers, she twisted the air itself, snapping the attack into the wall where glass jars exploded, releasing a bitter, choking cloud.
They began to move—slowly at first, circling. Then the duel truly ignited.
Spells flew in rapid succession, silent and deadly. Bolts of green energy cracked against barriers of molten gold; streams of shadow slipped along the floor, trying to bind ankles before dissolving into smoke; chains of ice leapt from midair, shattering when met by spheres of flame.
Neither woman spoke. Magic roared around them, and the floor quaked beneath their feet.
René's movements were clean and precise, her magic focused. She wasted nothing—each spell measured, each deflection exact.
Alina, in contrast, fought like a storm—wild, aggressive, pouring out power without hesitation. Her attacks were layered, unpredictable, and meant to overwhelm.
A glass cauldron burst between them, sending molten potion splashing across the floor. It hissed where it touched stone, eating into it with an acid stench.
Alina laughed—a low, delighted sound—and swept her wand upward. The broken glass shards rose, spun into a deadly cloud, and hurled toward René.
René lifted both hands this time, magic crackling up her arms. A shimmering barrier flared into being, stopping the shards mid-flight. But Alina was already moving, her left hand weaving a second spell while the right maintained the first. A lance of blinding white light streaked past the shards, shattering René's shield like glass.
René staggered a step back, boots skidding over the potion-slick floor. She snapped her wand forward, sending a burst of violet lightning directly at Alina's chest.
The strike hit—but it didn't stop her. Alina's silhouette blurred, fractured into afterimages, the real one appearing to the side with a slash of her wand. A whip of fire snaked out, curling toward René's arm.
René twisted away, the whip catching the edge of her sleeve instead. Cloth blackened and curled, the scent of scorched fabric filling the air.
They pressed closer now, the room shrinking around them. Shelves splintered, bottles burst, ancient scrolls curled into ash. Each step they took brought them within striking distance, each feint a risk that could end the duel in seconds.
Alina's smirk deepened as she deflected another spell. "You know," she said casually, her voice carrying over the din, "your dear son Maximilian has been very close to my daughter, Sophie."
René didn't break her rhythm—her wand snapped, redirecting a streak of red energy into the ceiling.
Alina went on, voice sharper now. "How long has it been? Oh, yes—eight years. Do you know the funny part?"
A pulse of magic flared from René, pushing Alina back a step. But Alina laughed, teeth flashing.
"The funny part," she continued, firing off another silent blast, "is that they think I don't know. They think I, who preserved the Trévér family for decades, am blind enough to trust anyone in the family." She deflected a counterattack with ease, her wand already tracing another curse. "Oh, I know everything, René. Everything."
"From what I understand, your son is in Austria, sharing a bed with my daughter. Strange, isn't it? While we tear each other apart, our children are tangled up in each other's arms. What a lovely little tragedy."
René's eyes flickered—just for a moment—and Alina saw it.
"You actually don't know anything about your own family," Alina pressed, her magic building into a relentless barrage. "Oh, the great René Voclain—on the day your husband died, your children died with him too. You just didn't notice."
The words landed like a blow. René faltered, her next shield snapping under Alina's attack. A lance of scarlet light clipped her side, drawing a sharp breath from her.
They clashed again, this time so close their spells erupted between them in flashes of raw energy. René's face was pale but set with grim determination; Alina's was flushed with the thrill of the fight, eyes bright, hair loose and wild.
The battle spilled from one end of the room to the other. Potions ignited into gouts of green fire, beams of destructive magic carved into the walls. A chandelier came crashing down between them, forcing them apart for a heartbeat before they lunged back into the fray.
René's style grew harsher now, her movements sharper—anger lending her speed. She conjured a torrent of enchanted daggers, all aimed for Alina's heart.
Alina spun, her wand drawing a wide arc. A surge of wind burst from her, scattering the blades like leaves. She followed instantly with a slicing curse.
René's shield flared too late. The curse hit her arm just below the elbow. For an instant there was no sound—then the world narrowed to a spray of crimson.
Her forearm hit the ground with a wet thud. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling over her robes, dripping to the stone floor.
René staggered, catching herself against a shattered table with her remaining hand. Her breathing was harsh, but her eyes—sharp, defiant—remained locked on Alina.
Alina lowered her wand slightly, circling. Blood streaked her cheek where a shard had grazed her earlier, but she moved without a limp, without weakness. Tired, yes—but still dangerous.
She smirked, her voice low and almost intimate. "Any last words, René Voclain?"
René straightened as much as she could, her wand still in her one good hand, her jaw set. The flames behind them crackled, throwing long shadows over the ruin of the room, the ruin of the Voclain manor, the ruin of two women's long, intertwined histories.