The night was cold enough to bite, the air sharp in their lungs as Eira and Emma reappeared on the lonely outskirts of rural France. They stood in the shadows of a skeletal tree line, the fields around them buried in snow. Far in the distance, beyond low rolling hills, a faint, flickering glow rose against the dark sky.
Eira narrowed her eyes. It wasn't the warm, steady glow of lanterns or hearth fires. It was restless—shifting—changing color. Red. Green. Blue. Gold. The unnatural hues rippled across the clouds like storm lightning. And under it came the faintest echo of sound, carried on the cold wind.
The sharp cracks of spellfire. Shouts. Screams. The splintering of stone.
The Trévér estate was under attack.
Emma's breath misted in the air as she stared ahead. "We're late. She's already here."
"Or what's left of her," Eira murmured grimly.
The two moved swiftly along the snow-covered ground, the wind pulling at their cloaks. They skirted the treeline, keeping low, until the land opened into a sweeping view of the estate below.
The Trévér family manor loomed in the distance, a grand and ancient structure of black stone, surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence. Normally, it would have projected an air of untouchable nobility, but now—now it was chaos.
Windows blazed with wild light, some shattering under the force of explosions from within. Portions of the roof were already aflame, smoke rising into the frozen air. Bright threads of magic arced through the night like shooting stars—emerald bolts clashing against scarlet streaks, blinding bursts of gold erupting against deep violet shields. The snow was lit in strange colors, shadows shifting unnaturally as combat raged inside.
From where they crouched behind a low ridge, Eira could see figures darting in and out of sight through the broken gates. Dozens of them—guards in the Trévér livery—rushing to seal the breach, shouting orders over the din.
Even from here, she could hear snatches of their voices.
"—still inside!" one barked.
"She's holding the east hall—" another answered, his words punctuated by the crack of a deflected curse.
"Nearly an hour now—she's not giving an inch!"
"They've sent word to my lady—she'll be here any moment!"
Emma's gaze darkened. "It's seems like she's surrounded."
Eira nodded slowly. "And they've called in the head of the house herself."
That meant two things: Isabella was still alive… and her chances would vanish the moment the true matriarch arrived.
Eira adjusted the clasp of her cloak, her breath steady. "We cut through to her. No waiting. No negotiating."
Emma's eyes flashed with agreement. "We'll have to break the perimeter first."
The two descended the snowy slope toward the estate, their boots silent on the frozen ground.
***********
They reached the outer wall—a tall, iron fence interwoven with ancient wards that shimmered faintly when touched by the moonlight.
Emma drew her wand. "On my mark—drop the ward and take the first guard on the left. I'll handle the right."
Eira gave a sharp nod.
Emma murmured a precise counter-charm, her wand etching faint silver sigils into the air. The wards flickered and parted like gauze.
Two guards patrolled just beyond, their attention fixed on the chaos deeper inside the grounds. They never saw the attack coming.
Eira's curse hit her target like a whipcrack, knocking him backward into the snow with a grunt. Emma's silent hex was even cleaner—her opponent crumpled without a sound.
The two women stepped over the fallen bodies and slipped into the shadows of the gardens beyond.
*************
The gardens, normally sculpted and serene, were a wreck—scorched hedges, shattered statues, the snow churned into muddy slush by bootprints and blood. The air here was thick with the tang of ozone and burnt stone.
A shout rang out ahead.
Two more guards rounded a corner, one raising his wand. Emma flicked her wrist sharply, and a streak of white-hot magic burst from her wand, slamming into the first man's shield and shattering it like glass. Eira's follow-up hex struck the second in the chest, sending him sprawling into a broken fountain.
They moved quickly, darting from cover to cover, closing in on the manor. The sounds of battle were louder now—spellfire ricocheting down marble corridors, the crash of collapsing beams. Somewhere inside, Isabella was still fighting.
A group of five guards blocked the eastern side entrance. They had their wands drawn but were watching the windows, waiting for the signal to move in.
Eira didn't wait. She stepped from behind a half-collapsed gazebo and sent a blast of raw kinetic force at the nearest guard, hurling him backward into the wall with a sickening crack. Emma followed in a smooth, predatory rhythm—three spells in quick succession, each precise and deadly, each finding its target before the men could mount a defense.
The fifth turned to flee, shouting for reinforcements. Eira's spell caught him mid-step, freezing him in place before he toppled like a statue into the snow.
Emma exhaled, scanning the door. "Clear."
They slipped inside.
***********
The east hall of the Trévér estate was a ruin.
Marble pillars lay in chunks across the floor. The once-pristine carpets were torn and scorched. The portraits on the walls—oil renderings of grim-faced ancestors—had fled their frames entirely. Every sound here was amplified: the whistle of spells cutting the air, the ringing clang when a curse struck a wall, the shouts of the defenders calling to each other in the chaos.
And still—no Isabella.
Instead, they caught sight of two guards ducking behind an overturned table, speaking in hurried tones.
"She's holding the gallery—east wing—still hasn't moved from her position."
"Been nearly an hour, hasn't it?"
"Aye. We've called for my lady. When she gets here, it's over."
Emma's jaw clenched. She met Eira's gaze.
"She's holding ground alone," Eira said quietly. "They've pinned her in, but she's not giving them the satisfaction of retreating."
Emma's eyes flashed. "Then we break their lines and take her out."
Eira's lips curved faintly. "Let's make some noise."
*************
They moved with purpose now, cutting through the eastern corridors like blades. Guards fell in quick succession—some to clean, silent hexes, others to brutal concussive blasts that tore chunks from the walls. Every step they took brought them closer to the gallery where Isabella was holding out.
Twice, they had to duck into side passages as reinforcements rushed past. Once, they stumbled upon a squad already preparing to breach the gallery—seven men with their wands trained on the massive double doors.
Eira didn't hesitate.
The first man barely had time to register movement before she stunned him. Emma dropped two more before the rest turned to face them, forcing them into a vicious, close-quarters duel. Spells clashed in bursts of light and heat, the air growing thick with smoke and dust.
When it was over, the corridor was littered with unconscious bodies.
Eira wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a faint smear of soot. "How much farther?"
Emma tilted her head, listening past the ringing in her ears. "Two corridors. Maybe less."
They pressed on.
************
By the time they reached the final stretch, the noise was deafening. The clash of magic echoed through the marble halls, accompanied by the groan of a building under siege. Through the haze of dust and smoke, they saw the faintest flicker of movement ahead—someone darting across the gallery, wand blazing.
But between them and that figure were still a dozen defenders.
Emma's expression turned feral. "Your left?"
"Always," Eira replied.
They surged forward together, their spells a seamless duet—stunning, disarming, blasting. One man went down under Emma's silent curse, another hurled back by Eira's concussive blast. Shields flared and failed, wards crumbled under their combined precision.
Step by step, they carved a path through the chaos toward the woman holding the gallery.
Isabella.
Still standing. Still fighting.
And still surrounded.