The ancestral manor of the Trévér family was steeped in silence, the kind that pressed against the skin like frost. Thick curtains dimd the morning light, casting long, grieving shadows across the stone walls. At the center of the great hall, beneath the painted crest of the Trévér lineage, a long table stood—on it, the cold body of Roman Trévér lay, cloaked in black velvet.
The mourners had gathered uncles, cousins, distant aunts, and silent-eyed grandparents—all dressed in ceremonial black. Their faces bore a strange mixture of sorrow and calculation. So wept softly behind handkerchiefs. Others stared coldly, as if the body were already becoming irrelevant.
At the head of the chamber, seated with icy composure, was Alina Trévér . Her golden hair was pulled back into a severe chignon, her face veiled in black lace, but her presence needed no visibility to be felt. She radiated command like a bitter perfu. Beside her, a pale, stiff man sat—Charles Trévér , her husband. To the public, he was Lord Trevor. But within these walls, even the stone knew better: he was rely the British consort to Alina, who ruled with silence and steel.
No one dared speak.
Until Alina did.
Her voice sliced through the air, sharp as a spell.
"Enough. All of you—silence."
The hush grew even heavier. So stopped mid-sob. Others lowered their gazes.
"Mourning is for those who lose sothing of value," she said coldly. "Roman is dead because he was weak. He was unworthy of the Trévér na. That is the only truth."
Her words fell like stone on a coffin.
Then her veiled eyes turned toward a boy standing stiffly among the mourners. He was young, dressed in a crisp black suit, his hands at his sides, unmoved by his brother’s corpse. His eyes—black and unreadable—t hers with practiced neutrality.
Julian Trevor.
Still a student at Beauxbâtons.
If Eira had been present, she might have recognized him imdiately. Julian had been the first to antagonize her at school, sneeringly calling her an "English girl." He had not changed. Not much.
"Co here, Julian," Alina said.
He obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward until he stood before her.
"Kneel."
Julian dropped to one knee, his movents graceful, princely. Blond hair swept back from a porcelain face, his gaze steady.
Alina leaned forward slightly.
"Today, you are nad heir to the Trévér family," she said. "Your brother is a corpse. That’s what happens to those who fail . Look at him, Julian. Learn. I will not suffer another weak son."
"I understand, Mother," Julian replied. "I will not disappoint you as he did."
Alina nodded. "Good. I expect much from you."
Then she rose slowly, the veil shifting like a shadow as she turned to face the rest of the family.
"Now listen carefully," she said. "The ti for mourning is over. Vengeance begins today. From this mont forward, anything associated with the Voclain family is to be destroyed. Shops. Hos. Allies. Burn the White family’s hotel in the Allée des rveilles, here in Paris. Let them know that the Trévérs do not forgive."
A murmur of dark agreent spread through the room. Soone muttered, "Blood for blood."
But Charles Trévér , still trembling in his seat, found the courage or the foolishness—to speak.
"But Alina... Isabella Voclain is Minister. If we strike her family, she’ll retaliate. And Maximilian Voclain—he will not stay silent. He’s dangerous. They both are."
Alina turned to him, her expression unreadable behind the veil. But the way her head tilted, ever so slightly, made the air grow cold.
"I do not care," she said. "If I do not receive justice, I will invoke the Duel of Honor. I will challenge Maximilian Voclain myself."
The room stilled. Even the air dared not move.
Charles’s voice was barely a whisper. "You can’t. The Duel of Honor hasn’t been used in decades. It’s forbidden. It would cause a political upheaval. The Ministry—"
Alina cut him off with a quiet, scornful sneer.
"If the other Pureblood families of France stand behind , the Ministry will have no say. And Maximilian is no coward. He will not flee from a challenge. Let it co."
She turned back to the others.
"All of you—go. Do as I’ve commanded. Level every potion shop that bears the Voclain na. Burn their trade routes. Spill their blood. Leave none alive."
Her voice was soft now, almost gentle.
"This is not revenge. This is war."
She waved them away, a queen dismissing her court.
"Leave ," she said. "Let be alone with my son."
The hall emptied quickly, footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Only the body of Roman remained, and Alina, who stood beside him like a monolith of grief turned to hatred.
Outside, the sky began to darken—because of falling snow.
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