Snow fell in languid spirals over the Voclain ancestral estate, muting the world in a soft, colorless hush. The burial hall stood at the far edge of the grounds — a structure of dark stone carved centuries ago, its high arched doors flanked by silver braziers burning pale-blue witchfire. Today, those fires burned higher, casting long, dancing shadows over the carved Voclain crest above the entryway.
Carriages lined the drive for as far as the eye could see, lacquered in black and gold, silver and white — the colors of the great families of France. The air was thick with the sound of crunching boots, murmured condolences, and the occasional solemn rustle of robes.
Inside the hall, the light came from hundreds of floating candles suspended in long rows, their flames swaying gently in the still air. The walls were lined with names — generations of Voclains carved into marble, each marked with their birth and death years, each flanked by a small inset shelf holding a polished silver urn or enchanted reliquary. At the center, on a raised dais draped in black, lay the coffin: blackwood polished to a mirror sheen, adorned with a spray of deep red roses and sprigs of silverleaf.
Eira entered with Emma and Isabella, their footsteps echoing over the black marble floor. Isabella was draped in full mourning attire — a gown of deep black velvet, gloves of lace, and a veil that shrouded her face entirely. She moved like a shadow, her arm loosely linked with Emma's, who walked steady at her side, expression unreadable.
Maximilian stood already near the coffin, tall and severe in his tailored mourning robes. His brown hair was tied back neatly, and his hands were clasped loosely in front of him. Though he greeted each arriving guest with the faintest incline of his head, his eyes remained as cold and polished as obsidian.
The Delacour family arrived soon after — Jean-Luc Delacour in formal grey, his wife Apolline Delacour even in muted tones, and their daughters Fleur and Gabrielle in matching dark blue cloaks. Fleur's gaze flicked briefly to Eira as they passed, a subtle, wordless greeting in the solemnity of the moment.
Then came Madame Maxime, her towering presence softened by the simple cut of her robes, followed by an assortment of French Ministry officials, potioneers, and society figures. Old families like the Desmarais, Lavoisier, and Fontaine filed in, their murmured words of condolence drifting in the candlelight.
Most guests approached Maximilian first.
"My deepest sympathies, Lord Voclain," said a grey-haired wizard from the Lavoisier line, his voice grave. "René was an irreplaceable talent."
Maximilian nodded once. "Your words are appreciated."
From across the room, Eira watched the ritual repeat — the handshakes, the bowed heads, the carefully chosen words. She understood it for what it was: part grief, part performance, part politics.
Only a few dared approach Isabella. Those who did were received in silence; she neither lifted her veil nor offered a word, only the faintest nod of acknowledgment before turning back toward the coffin. Emma remained beside her like a sentinel, intercepting anyone who lingered too long.
The ceremony began with the toll of the old bronze bell in the tower above the hall. The sound rolled through the chamber in twelve slow strikes, each one sinking into the marrow.
An officiant in deep crimson robes stepped forward, raising his wand. "We gather here under the eyes of our ancestors, to honor René Voclain — wife, mother, scholar, and friend. She walked this earth with grace, with intellect, and with courage. Her work in the art of potioncraft enriched our world; her devotion to her family, even in troubled times, never wavered."
The words were formal, practiced — yet the silence in the hall was absolute.
As the officiant continued, various guests stepped forward to speak. A silver-haired witch from the Société Internationale des Potioneurs recalled the first time she saw René present her Phœnixum Draught to the council — "She spoke softly, but her work spoke loudly for her."
Another, a younger potioneer in moss-green robes, told of apprenticing under René: "She never raised her voice in criticism. She asked questions until you found your own error, and when you did, she smiled as though you'd handed her a gift."
Maximilian did not speak until the final moments of the ceremony. When he did, his words were precise, measured:
"My mother was a woman of remarkable talent and quiet strength. She valued integrity above all else, in her work and in her life. Though she is gone, her legacy is not — it lives on in the countless lives touched by her craft, in the traditions she upheld, and in the blood of this family. We will endure, as she endured."
It was not an intimate tribute — it was a statement, meant for the room as much as for the dead.
The final rite was the sealing of the coffin. The officiant traced a glowing silver rune over the lid; the roses and silverleaf sank into the wood, becoming part of it. Two robed bearers stepped forward, lifting it from the dais and carrying it down the aisle toward the rear of the hall, where the family tomb lay beneath a great arch of carved stone.
Guests followed in silence. The air grew colder as they descended into the burial chamber, the walls lined with generations of Voclain dead. The coffin was slid into its resting place — an alcove marked with Renée's name in fresh-cut marble. The witchfire braziers flared once, then steadied.
One by one, guests stepped forward to place a hand against the stone, whispering their farewells.
When it was Isabella's turn, she did not speak. She pressed her gloved fingers to the marble for a long moment, then let Emma guide her back toward the steps.
Eira lingered a moment longer, her eyes tracing the carved letters. She said nothing — there was nothing to say. The truth of who had done this was already known to her, to Isabella, to Maximilian. But here, in the cold and quiet, the feud and politics felt far away. Here, there was only a name in stone, and the stillness of an ending.
Back in the upper hall, the guests began to drift toward the carriages, their breath puffing white in the night air. The murmurs had shifted — less of condolences now, more of speculation: whether the Trévér family would be formally accused, whether this would hasten another Duel of Honor, whether House Voclain would retaliate.
Maximilian stood at the doors until the last guest had gone, his posture perfect, his face unreadable. Isabella and Emma had already withdrawn into one of the side rooms, away from prying eyes.
Eira stepped out into the snow, the night air biting at her cheeks. The fires by the gate burned on, steady and cold. Somewhere in the distance, a carriage wheel groaned, and the world moved forward — as it always did, even after loss.