The front doors of the Trévér ancestral manor creaked open with a low, groaning protest, as though even the wood wished to keep its secrets locked inside.
The corridor beyond was dim, washed in a cold blue-gray light seeping in from narrow windows. Dust motes swirled in the air like ghostly embers.
Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock ticked—slow, deliberate, and almost mocking.
Eira stepped inside first, her boots pressing against an ornate carpet frayed at the edges. Emma followed, her wand loosely held at her side, eyes scanning every shadow.
It's too quiet, Eira thought. She could hear only their breathing, the muffled tick of that clock, and the faint hiss of the winter wind outside.
The quiet broke with a violent crack.
From the darkness of the upper landing, a spell screamed toward them—thin, violet, and needle-sharp. Eira jerked her head aside, the blast hissing past her ear and exploding against the far wall in a spray of plaster.
"Ambush!" Emma snarled, already moving. Her wand snapped up, sending a chain of hexes toward the source.
A woman darted into view from behind a banister—mid-thirties, wiry, with a stubborn glare. Her aim was sloppy but relentless, blasting spells that hissed like serpents, one after another. Sparks rained from the ceiling as beams splintered and wallpaper burned.
Eira's heart thudded as the two women dueled, the staccato rhythm of spells lighting the corridor in flashes—green, red, gold. Emma's movements were sharp, economical, every curse delivered with lethal precision. The woman's footing faltered as Emma pressed forward, deflecting one hex and ricocheting it into the wall beside her opponent's head.
"Drop it!" Emma barked.
But the woman didn't stop. She gritted her teeth, firing back in desperation. Her magic lacked control; her wand arm trembled. And yet she didn't yield—not until Emma's final disarming spell hit her square in the wrist. Her wand spun away, clattering against the marble floor.
Emma's wand was already lifting for the kill.
Then—
"No!"
The cry pierced the air like a blade.
Two small figures ran into the corridor from a side door—a boy of about seven, his brown hair a tangled mess, and a little girl, maybe five, both clutching small wands that Eira recognized instantly as toys. Their chests heaved, eyes wide with terror and defiance. The boy planted himself between Emma and the fallen woman, shaking but unyielding.
"You can't kill her!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You can't kill Auntie!"
The girl chimed in, shrill and desperate. "Leave her alone! You're bad people!"
For a split second, Emma's expression froze. Her wand tip, still glowing faintly with power, hovered in the air. Her gaze flicked from the woman to the two trembling children, and Eira saw something rare—hesitation.
The woman, still on the ground, scrambled forward to shield them. Her arms swept around their small bodies. "Didn't I tell you to hide?" she hissed, voice quivering. "The wardrobe! Why did you come out?!"
The boy's lips trembled, but his voice didn't falter. "We heard fighting. We're not afraid. We have to protect you."
Emma's stance was still tense, the fight burning in her muscles. But Eira stepped forward, placing a hand on her arm.
"Stand down, Emma," she said quietly. Her tone carried no suggestion—it was a command.
Emma's jaw flexed, but after a moment, she lowered her wand. The glow at its tip faded.
Eira turned to the woman. "Where are the rest of the Trévér family?"
The woman's eyes hardened. "Even if you kill me, I wouldn't tell you."
Before Eira could press, the little girl burst out, "They ran away! They said they'll come after you! And when they come after you, they'll kill you!"
Eira looked down at the girl, startled by the fierce bravery in those small eyes.
Emma, regaining her composure, stepped away and began searching the nearby rooms. A door swung open, revealing a third child—a toddler, no older than three—peering out from under a desk. Emma's eyes narrowed, and she swept through the manor quickly, her footsteps echoing in the empty halls.
When she returned, she shook her head. "No one else. Just them."
Eira faced the woman again. "Why are you here alone? Why leave you behind?"
The woman pressed her lips together, refusing to speak. But the boy blurted out, "Our great family trusted us to defend the house! We're supposed to protect it."
Isabella, who had entered silently behind them, gave a short, bitter laugh. "So the Trévérs abandoned you—children—to buy themselves time. Cowards hiding behind their own blood."
The girl lifted her chin. "My mother will come soon! She'll fight you and beat you up, you bad guys!"
Eira's gaze sharpened. "Who's your mother?"
The child answered without hesitation. "Alina Trévér."
At that, Eira's eyes flicked to the woman. "Is she truly the daughter of Alina Trévér?"
The woman shook her head quickly. "No—no, she's my daughter. This has nothing to do with Alina."
But Isabella was already stepping forward. "Lies."
The questioning grew harsher. Under the pressure, the truth spilled out—the three children were indeed Alina Trévér's. Neglected. Hidden away. And this woman, Alina's cousin, stayed behind to guard and protect them while the rest of the family—her uncles, her parents, every so-called protector—fled the manor without a backward glance.
Isabella's voice was dripping with disgust. "What an immoral family. Leaving children to stand as shields while they save their own skins."
Eira crouched slightly so her eyes were level with the woman's. Her voice was calm but edged with steel. "Take these children and go somewhere safe."
The woman's eyes darted away. "If I leave, it's betrayal. They'll say I betrayed the family."
Eira's voice cooled. "You stayed to protect these children. Is their safety worth less than the loyalty of a pack of monsters who abandoned them? Is their life not precious to you?"
"If you hadn't attacked us," the woman shot back, "none of this would matter."
"Don't talk about what-ifs," Eira replied sharply. "Take them. Leave. If you don't, they'll be caught in the fighting that's coming. And make no mistake—there will be fighting."
The woman's resolve wavered. Finally, she nodded. Gathering the three children, she guided them toward a side door, choosing the safest route out of the manor.
As their footsteps faded, the house fell still again. The only sound was the distant ticking of that cursed clock.
Emma turned toward the main hall. "We should clear the rest—"
She stopped.
The sound came first—measured, deliberate steps on marble. The sharp click of high heels echoed in the atrium below.
Eira's pulse quickened. She moved toward the balustrade and looked down.
In the center of the atrium stood a woman with flowing blonde hair and eyes the color of forest green . Her smile was too wide, too bright and predatory.
Her gaze locked on Eira, and the smile deepened into something colder.
"Well," she said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. "I was wondering when we'd finally meet."