The first thing to break the steady rhythm of spellfire was confusion.
Eira's hex cut through the air like a streak of lightning, slamming into a guard who'd been focused entirely on the east door. He dropped without a sound, his wand clattering across the marble floor.
Another man shouted from across the corridor, "Who the hell—?!"
Before he could finish, Emma stepped out of the smoke with the predatory calm of a seasoned killer. Her wand flicked once—twice—three times in rapid succession. Three guards dropped in under two seconds, their bodies hitting the floor with heavy thuds.
The surviving men swore and scrambled for cover.
"Someone's inside the perimeter!" one shouted.
"It's not her—there's more than one! She's brought help!"
The panic was immediate. Shouts echoed through the halls, orders barked over the noise of combat.
"Hold your ground!"
"Regroup—don't let them through!"
But it was too late for regrouping. Emma and Eira moved like smoke through the fractured hallways, striking before their enemies even knew from which direction the attack was coming.
************
A guard emerged from a side room, wand half-raised. Emma didn't hesitate—her curse hit him square in the chest, hurling him back into the doorway hard enough to splinter the frame.
Eira spun to deflect a spell aimed at her back, sending the violet curse ricocheting into the wall, where it scorched a deep groove into the stone. Her counterattack was a blinding silver arc that slammed into her attacker's shield, shattering it in a burst of sparks before knocking the man flat.
"Left side, two incoming!" Emma called, already pivoting.
"I see them."
They split, each taking a different angle, spells flaring bright in the dim hall. The air grew thick with smoke and dust, the heat from the magical blasts prickling their skin despite the winter chill that had seeped in through the shattered windows.
***********
Every few steps, they caught fragments of panicked conversation from guards up ahead:
"She's still in the gallery!"
"They can't be far—half our men are down!"
"No—more than half!"
Three corridors later, the numbers were worse for the defenders. Emma was a relentless force, cutting down anyone in her path with silent precision. Eira kept pace, her magic weaving around Emma's in a deadly dance—covering her flanks, striking when needed, breaking wards before Emma's more lethal spells slipped through.
By the time they reached the double doors of the gallery, the corridor behind them was littered with bodies.
Eira stepped over the last man to fall, his wand still clutched loosely in his fingers. "That's… three-quarters of them gone."
Emma didn't even glance back. "Good. Saves us time."
************
Inside the gallery, chaos reigned.
Isabella stood near the far end, cloak torn, her wand still steady in her hand. She had planted herself behind a scorched marble column, using it for cover as she sent a stream of vicious hexes down the length of the room. Her hair was loose, streaked with sweat and ash, and her breathing was ragged—but her eyes burned with that same unyielding fury that had taken her from the White mansion hours before.
Between her and the new arrivals, only a handful of Trévér guards still stood, and they were faltering fast.
One spotted Emma and Eira entering from the smoke-choked doorway. His eyes widened in recognition just before Emma's curse struck him in the chest, dropping him instantly. Another tried to flee; Eira's binding spell caught his legs mid-step, sending him sprawling across the floor.
Within seconds, the last of the guards collapsed, and silence—broken only by the hiss of still-burning drapes—settled over the gallery.
*************
Emma crossed the room in long, quick strides, her wand still in her hand, her expression dark.
"What were you thinking?" Her voice cut through the air sharper than any curse. "Coming here alone? Charging straight into the Trévér stronghold without a word?"
Isabella leaned her shoulder against the column, drawing in a breath. "I had to—"
"No. You didn't." Emma's tone was ice. "We agreed. We would not attack them yet. We were going to wait, gather information, weaken them first—"
"They deserve—"
"You think I don't know what they deserve?" Emma stepped closer, the tension in her voice tightening. "You think I don't want them destroyed? But this—this was suicide. You didn't trust me enough to tell me? To tell us? Do you have any idea what could've happened to you? What it would've done to Eira—"
Isabella's jaw tightened. "I can handle myself."
"Not against an entire estate's worth of guards! You would have been dead if we hadn't come."
For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the burning drapes.
Emma's voice lowered, but the anger in it remained. "I told you I would help you. I told you we'd strike when the time was right. But instead, you came here alone and almost threw your life away. For what? Pride? Revenge?"
Isabella's gaze faltered, just for a second.
"Enough."
Eira's voice was quiet but sharp enough to cut through both of them. She stepped forward, scanning the blackened gallery. "This isn't the time for this argument. You're both alive, and the guards are gone. Now we finish the job."
She turned toward the massive inner doors at the far end of the gallery—the entrance to the heart of the Trévér mansion. "We came here for a reason. We breach, we move, we end this before their reinforcements arrive."
Emma glanced at her, jaw tight, then finally gave a single, curt nod.
Isabella adjusted her grip on her wand, the embers in her eyes still burning. "Then let's finish it."
The three women moved together toward the tall doors. The heat from the fires made the air shimmer, and the glow of distant spellfire flickered beyond the cracks in the frame.
Eira pushed the doors open, and they stepped inside.