Snow fell in thin, whispering sheets over the blackened bones of the Voclain Manor. The front gates hung crooked, one hinge screeching softly in the wind. Aurors in deep midnight-brown cloaks stood watch, their wands drawn, their breath clouding in the frigid air. Beyond them, others picked over the scorched grounds, their boots crunching over frozen ash.
Eira stepped through the gates without slowing, her gaze sweeping the ruin. The smell of wet smoke clung to everything—walls, earth, even the air she breathed. Through the open front doors, the charred scent was stronger still, wrapped around something colder, emptier.
Inside, the great hall had lost its grandeur. Cracks veined the marble floor, a chandelier lay in splintered crystal against the steps, and scorched marks marred the once-ivory columns. It was too quiet, save for the muffled murmur of voices outside and the faint crackle of embers deep within the walls.
On a sagging velvet couch sat Isabella Voclain, her normally immaculate hair in loose disarray, face blotched and swollen from hours of crying. Emma Bloom sat close beside her, one arm around her shoulders, murmuring low and steady in her ear. A half-empty glass of brandy rested untouched on the table in front of them.
By the fireplace, Maximilian Voclain stood rigid, one hand in his pocket, the other resting idly on the mantel. His expression was unreadable. The fire had been lit, but the warmth it offered did not seem to reach him.
Eira paused in the doorway, taking in the tableau before her. Isabella was so consumed by grief she didn't notice her arrival. Emma glanced up, met Eira's eyes, and gave a subtle nod—half a greeting, half a warning.
The first voice to break the silence was Isabella's, though it was not directed at Eira.
"Where were you?" she said suddenly, her voice trembling but loud enough to slice through the quiet.
Maximilian's gaze shifted toward her, his tone flat. "What are you talking about?"
Her hands clenched in her lap. "When they came. When she was killed. Where were you?"
"I was here when it mattered," he replied evenly, though there was a hint of irritation beneath the calm.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes red and shining. "Here? Here? You weren't here. You weren't with her. You weren't protecting her. You weren't—"
"Oh, cut the bullshit, woman. Where were you, huh? Where were you when Mother was killed?" His words came out like knives, each one colder than the last. "You severed ties with this family months ago—you walked away and never looked back. If there's someone to blame, it's you. You're the one who ended the Auror protection here. It was your pride, your damned ego, that left her alone to die."
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to an icy calm. "So tell me—who are you to question my place? My actions?"
The words landed like a slap. Isabella's breath quickened, and before she could think, her hand lashed out—striking his cheek. The sound echoed in the hollow space.
Maximilian didn't flinch. The mark began to bloom faintly against his pale skin, yet he remained still, his gaze fixed on her with that same cold, unblinking stare.
"Grief," he said softly, almost conversationally, "doesn't grant you the right to raise your hand against me, woman. I have tolerated your insolence long enough. I am the Lord of the Voclain family—you are a cast-off, stripped of name and standing." His voice dropped to a razor's edge. "This is the last time I suffer your strike. The next time you try…" His eyes narrowed. "…I'll take that arm myself."
Her voice cracked as she screamed, "Lord? Lord?" The word came out like a curse. "They murdered our mother, Maximilian! And you—" Her breath hitched, the next words breaking beneath sobs. "You weren't there. You should have been there." She took a trembling step forward, fury and heartbreak tangled in her voice. "What were you doing, as 'Lord of the House,' while our home was being destroyed? You knew the war between the Voclain and Trévér was burning hotter than ever, and still you left it unprotected. Is that what you think a lord does?"
For a moment, the only sound was her crying and the faint hiss of the fire.
It was then that Isabella looked past him—and saw Eira standing in the doorway.
"Eira…" Her voice was small now, almost pleading. She stumbled forward, brandy glass forgotten, and when she reached her niece, she collapsed into her arms. "My mother… she's dead. She's gone. They killed her…"
Eira held her without hesitation, one arm wrapped firmly around her back, the other cradling the back of her head. Isabella's tears soaked through the fabric of her coat, but Eira didn't mind. Her own eyes stayed dry—not because she felt nothing, but because she already knew.
Of course it was Alina Trévér. It had always been leading to this.
She glanced briefly toward Maximilian, who was watching without a flicker of reaction, then to Emma, who still sat on the couch, her expression unreadable but her gaze steady. They both knew as well. No one needed to say the name.
"You're not alone," Eira said quietly into Isabella's hair. "I'm here. Emma's here. We'll get through this."
Isabella only clung tighter, her sobs hitching against Eira's shoulder.
From outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled the broken front doors, carrying with it the clipped voices of Aurors still questioning witnesses. Somewhere in the distance, a carriage wheel groaned over the frozen road. Inside, the air was heavy, close, and thick with the mingled scents of smoke and brandy.
Maximilian finally moved, stepping away from the fireplace toward the side door without another word. His footsteps echoed across the marble, then faded.
Eira kept her arms around Isabella until the sobs quieted to small, broken breaths. Only then did she guide her gently back toward the couch. Emma shifted, making space for both of them, her arm coming back around Isabella in a wordless gesture of support.