The Trévér estate's hall was suffused with the lingering scent of scorched marble and ozone. Sparks still curled from broken chandeliers and shattered walls, a testament to the earlier duel. Alina Trévér stood in the center, disarmed in one hand but still unnervingly composed, her green eyes scanning Eira. There was a dangerous calm in her expression, a predatory serenity.
Eira tightened her grip on her wand, her chest heaving. "I won't… I won't kill you," she said finally, her voice strong yet tinged with hesitation. "It's not my right to kill you."
Alina's head tilted slightly, as though studying a curiosity she couldn't quite comprehend. "Ah… I expected as much," she said softly. "You always hesitate, Eira. You will never cross the final line. And that… that will be your weakness."
Eira's eyes didn't waver. She refused to respond. She wasn't going to kill her—not because she feared Alina, but because it wasn't her place. That was her aunt's right, her aunt's revenge, not hers. It wasn't her battle to settle, and she wouldn't overstep.
Then, from behind her, a confident voice rang out: "It is my right to kill you."
Isabella stepped forward, wand poised, eyes blazing with determination. "You killed my mother. You didn't end her swiftly, as a true wizard would—you made her suffer, you tortured her. I have every right to end your life here."
Alina's head snapped to Isabella. For a fraction of a second, her cold eyes widened—not with fear, but with something that resembled betrayal. She sneered at Eira, a cruel smirk twisting her lips. "Look at you," she whispered, almost sing-song. "Even now, you hesitate. Your mercy… it will be your weakness. Remember this moment. One day, it will cost you everything."
Isabella's hand trembled slightly on her wand, but her eyes never wavered from Alina. "This has nothing to do with her—it's my revenge of my mother. The only reason she didn't end you herself is because she refused to grant you that satisfaction. But I… I am the one who has the right to decide your fate," she spat, every word laced with fury and grief, her voice trembling yet unyielding.
Alina's smirk shifted to a thin, cruel grin, and she turned fully to Isabella, her voice soft and cutting. "Ah… your mother. Such a fragile little thing. Begging, crying as she died. René Voclain fought bravely , I will admit that… but at the end, she was nothing. Weak. Helpless. And in her final moments…" Her tone dropped to a whisper, almost taunting. "She called for her while crying and begging. Maria… Maria…"
Eira's chest tightened. Goosebumps crawled along her arms. Her hand trembled slightly as the name hit her like a blade—Maria. Her mother's name, her memory, a painful wound reopened by Alina's words.
Alina's voice rose again, harsh and mocking. "And when René Voclain's hand was cut off…do you know what she said? Do you want to hear her cries? I'm sorry, my daughter… I'm coming for you… Maria… Maria…"
Isabella's fingers tightened around her wand. Her jaw flexed, knuckles whitening. A tremor ran through her hands, but she held her stance, furious and raw with grief.
Alina's smirk widened, delighting in the effect. "Do you feel it? That knot in your chest, the memory you cannot undo? That is power. That is fear. That is control."
Eira, standing behind Isabella, felt her own chest tighten further, heart clenching as the memories surfaced. But she kept her wand ready, refusing to let Alina's psychological attacks shake her focus.
Alina's eyes flicked between them, sharp, calculating. "Do you know what is the most… amusing?" she whispered, leaning slightly toward Isabella. "Your future… all that potential you have. Your entire life could be destroyed by killing me. By striking down a woman like me, the head of a pure-blood family… in France… without trial. Do you understand? The Ministry will come down on you. Your career—everything you've worked for—stained, ruined, obliterated."
Isabella's breath hitched, but she stood unyielding, her eyes blazing. Her voice sliced through the hall, sharp and merciless. "I don't care about being the Minister or whatever. Titles mean nothing. This… this is about my revenge—and nothing else will satisfy me."
With a swift, fluid movement, Isabella swung her wand. Alina's hand was severed at the wrist in a flash of silver light. Blood hissed and spattered across the marble floor, but Alina did not flinch. She stared at her missing hand, still smiling, eyes glinting with manic amusement.
"I see… you are prepared to sacrifice everything for this revenge," she murmured, almost gleeful. "Yes… yes, indeed."
From her pocket, she drew the small ring she had once used on the Normandy beach, intending to teleport and escape. But Emma was faster. The spell shot from her wand in a streak of blue lightning, severing Alina's other hand before she could even touch the ring. Sparks flew. Alina's gasp was mingled with laughter.
"Well," she said, her voice shaking with exhilaration, "it seems you were ready this time."
Emma's eyes narrowed. She turned to Isabella. "Finish her. There's no time to waste. The Ministry will descend on this place soon, and leaving her alive, even in this state, is a risk."
Isabella nodded, her wand already alight. Alina's gaze shifted toward Eira, still smiling with unbroken arrogance, even as blood trickled down her forearms. She did not blink.
The first cutting charm struck. Silver light tore across Alina's torso, slicing halfway through her body. She laughed, the sound chilling, echoed against the walls. She sagged slightly, then fell to the floor, still alive for the briefest moment, her laughter echoing like a curse through the marble hall.
Emma's hand gripped Isabella's and Eira's firmly. "Now! Apparate! Move!"
In a flash of light, they vanished from the wreckage, leaving behind the mansion in absolute ruin. Flames hungrily devoured the shattered walls, smoke curled into the night sky, and the remains of Alina lay among the debris. The air was thick with the acrid scent of fire and destruction.
From the distance, the chaotic roar of the Ministry of Magic reached them—shouts of alarm, the clatter of boots on broken stone, and the frantic cries of those discovering the horror left in Alina's wake. Emma pressed forward, guiding Isabella and Eira as they Apparated repeatedly, putting space between themselves and the inferno behind them.
Outside, snow began to fall silently, blanketing the landscape in stark contrast to the fiery chaos they had left behind. The mansion smoldered and crumbled, a testament to the destruction and madness that had reigned within. Yet, driven by urgency and instinct, Emma led them onward, away from the horrors, away from the flames, into the cold, dark night.