The chamber carried a faint scent of scorched stone and ash, the echoes of the earlier skirmish still lingering in the air. A pale glow from the snow-heavy clouds seeped through a high window, casting dim, shifting shadows across the floor, where dust motes drifted like ghostly flakes in the muted light.
Alina Trévér stood in the center, as composed as if this were her private drawing room. Her dark coat was immaculate despite the carnage outside, and her pale fingers traced the edge of her wand like one might toy with a glass of wine.
Her eyes—piercing green, unnervingly alive locked onto Isabella first, sharp with a predator's focus.
"Well, now," Alina said, her voice soft but clear enough to make the walls seem to lean in. "I never imagined the great Minister of Magic, Isabella of Voclain , would lower herself to storming a pure-blood household. How… unbecoming."
The way she lingered on unbecoming was like a blade tip pressed against skin.
Isabella stiffened but didn't speak, her hand clenched tight around her wand.
Alina's lips curved. "Do you realize what you've done? All it will take is one article, one whisper in the right ears, and your precious Ministry will hang you out to dry. Oh, imagine the scandal. 'Minister Breaks Sacred Pure-Blood Accord.' Your career—" she gave a mock flick of her fingers "—over in a day."
Emma stood off to Eira's right, a step behind, her gaze sharp but silent. She was calculating, weighing options.
Eira said nothing yet, her eyes locked on Alina, assessing.
Alina's head tilted, her gaze sliding over Isabella as if she were a nuisance in the corner, before finally—finally—resting fully on Eira. The change was almost physical; the room's air seemed to draw tighter, as if everyone else ceased to matter.
"You," Alina murmured, almost in relief, "are the only reason I'm still standing here."
She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots whispering against stone. Isabella shifted to intercept, but Alina didn't even glance at her, walking around her as one would an inconvenient piece of furniture.
Her focus was all for Eira.
"I heard about your little… mercy," Alina said, her voice sweet with venom. "The children. You let them live." Her smile widened, but it didn't touch her eyes. "Do you think that was noble? Charming? Perhaps even wise?"
Eira's gaze didn't waver. "I think it was the right thing to do."
"Oh, my lovely Eira…" Alina's tone turned intimate, almost mournful. "That mercy will be the stone that drags you under. Do you not see it? One day, when you are old—when your guard is down—they will come for you. They will grow strong on hatred. They will sharpen their little knives with thoughts of your kindness."
"They won't," Eira replied quietly, but with steel. "Not if they remember how their family treated them. How you treated them. How you neglected them."
Alina stopped a breath away, looking directly into Eira's eyes. Then she laughed—low, throaty, and unsettling.
"Neglect?" she said, as if tasting the word. "Those bitter little things do not care about neglect. Children do not grow up thinking about your compassion or your cruelty. They remember faces. Yours. The face of the one who spared them. The one they can blame for every ache, every loss, every empty night. They will come, Eira. They will come, and they will cut you to pieces."
The words were delivered like a lover's confession, almost tender.
Eira didn't move. "If that day comes, I'll face it. But I won't become like you to avoid it."
Alina's eyes lit with something between admiration and hunger. "And what am I, Eira?" she asked, leaning in.
Eira didn't answer.
"You know," Alina continued, her voice soft as silk, "I could teach you. You could be sharper than any of them. Colder. You could tear down the old world and build something worth ruling. All it takes…"
She extended her hand, palm up, fingers long and pale.
"…is for you to take my hand."
Emma tensed beside Eira. Isabella took a step forward, about to speak, but Alina's presence filled the space like smoke, drowning out all else.
"Come, Eira," she coaxed, her voice dipping lower, almost a whisper. "Become mine. We will shape the world together, you and I. My lovely Eira… I am offering you the throne no one else dares even to touch."
Her eyes flickered briefly toward Isabella, full of contempt, before sliding back to Eira. "Why waste yourself on them?"
Isabella's patience cracked. "Why did you kill my mother?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the tension. "That was cowardly, even for you."
Alina didn't even blink.
She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge her. It was as if Isabella's words evaporated before reaching her. Her entire attention stayed locked on Eira, gaze unwavering.
"Take it," Alina murmured again, lifting her hand slightly. "We could wipe out every family that stands in our way. From the root. No loose ends, no lingering threats. The future, ours alone."
Isabella's teeth clenched. "Answer me!"
Alina's smile widened faintly, but still, she did not look at her.
That was the breaking point. Isabella drew her wand in one swift movement, fury sparking. "Enough!" she shouted, and a streak of blazing silver shot toward Alina.
The spell never reached her.
With a lazy flick of her wrist, Alina deflected it mid-air, the silver light dissolving like smoke in wind. She didn't even shift her stance, her gaze still locked on Eira as though the attack had been an afterthought.
Finally, slowly, she turned her head toward Isabella.
Her smile turned almost… pitying.
"Oh, my dear," she said softly, "you are so wet…"
Her tone shifted, dropping into something wickedly amused.
"…you can't wait to be fingered by me."
The chamber went utterly still. Even the dust in the sunlight seemed frozen.