Snow drifted lazily outside the frost-laced windows of the White Manor’s Paris wing, settling softly over the slate roofs and silent streets below. The city was hushed beneath a blanket of white, but the fire inside Eira White’s private office crackled steadily, casting amber light against the high bookshelves and dark-paneled walls.
The morning was January 1st, 1993. The first day of a new year.
Eira sat at the head of the long walnut table, legs crossed, hands gloved in black leather, a fountain pen poised neatly beside her. Her posture was perfect, still. Not a trace of lancholy lingered on her face—only quiet focus. She watched the snow for a mont longer, then turned her eyes to the woman across from her.
Emma Bloom, wrapped in her usual erald-green coat, sat with a parchnt folder open before her, sorting through correspondence written in codes, foreign runes, and discreet symbols. A small enchanted fla hovered above her hand, keeping the ink from freezing in the chill.
"The situation has cald," Emma said without lifting her eyes. "At least publicly."
Eira leaned slightly forward. "Oh, I expected an all out war, anyway go on ."
"In the last two days, fighting between the Trévér and Voclain families has cooled. Ministry representatives stepped in quietly. A few older families from the Continent—Spain, Austria, the Bruckners in Vienna sent discreet envoys. They’re calling for ’preservation of magical stability.’"
Eira’s expression didn’t change. "So they’ve started tugging leashes."
Emma nodded. "Enough pressure on both sides to quiet things for now. The Trévér family’s attacks have halted. The Voclains are holding position, keeping their retaliation verbal."
"Mm." Eira reached for her tea, now properly steeped. "I don’t like it , It shouldn’t last."
Emma looked up. "You don’t want it to last?"
"Ohm," Eira nodded smoothly. "I want the Trévér family to bleed Quietly. Without giving anyone a reason to trace it back to us."
Emma nodded once, already pulling out a second folder.
"Then we begin with economic throttling."
"Good," Eira said. "I want their international trade—specifically with North Arica cut off at the knees. No shipnts. No buyers. No port clearances."
Emma tapped the folder. "Their shipnts to the United States, xico, and Argentina are frequent. Mostly alchemical ingredients, minor relics, and enchanted textiles. I have contacts in all three regions. With a little persuasion, we can block those routes. Or delay them. Either works."
"Delay is better," Eira said. "Let their partners grow impatient. Let contracts lapse and suspicion fester."
Emma smiled faintly. "I’ll make the Aricans think Trévér potions are becoming unstable. That their wandwoods are cursed. All unofficial, of course."
"No nas, And certainly No White involvent."
"Obviously."
Eira sipped her tea again. "I want this done surgically. The Trévérs rely on reputation. Prestige. Their empire is built on tradition and intimidation. If that starts to crack—if whispers of ’unreliability’ grow—they’ll be scrambling to maintain appearances."
Emma nodded again. "I’ll start in Boston, then move to the ports in New Orleans. We’ll stage it to look like bureaucratic incompetence or magical contamination."
"Good."
For a mont, the two won sat in silence. The fire hissed in the hearth. The snow continued to fall, quiet and uninterrupted.
Then Eira spoke again.
"The Voclain family?"
Emma hesitated only slightly. "They’re wounded, but not weakened. They’ve taken losses but haven’t lost footing. Isabella’s keeping them from retaliating."
Eira nodded. "Of course she would after all she is a Voclain."
Emma looked up. "We’re not moving against them?"
"No," Eira said firmly. "I hold no animosity toward the Voclains. This is not my feud. But I won’t let it spill over onto my family without consequence."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "So we keep them where they are. Let them fu."
"Exactly. Let them suspect the Trévérs of plotting more. Feed it subtly—nothing direct. But just enough to keep the embers warm."
Emma smiled again. "This is going to get ssy."
"No," Eira said, standing now and walking to the window. "It’s going to look elegant. Like it happened all on its own."
She touched the glass with her fingertips, watching the snow lt where her warmth t the cold. "By the end of this year, I want the Trévér na to an uncertainty. I want their allies to hesitate. I want their gold to dry up. I want Alina Trévér to wonder why everything she built is slipping through her hands."
Emma stood as well, already folding her folders into a chard satchel. "And not a soul will tie it back to House White."
"Not a whisper," Eira said. "We are to remain neutral, uninvolved, even sympathetic in the eyes of the press. Everything else..." She turned and gave Emma a sharp glance. "...happens in silence."
Emma gave a mock salute. "Whatever you want my lady."
Eira returned to her seat. She didn’t smile, but sothing about her stillness carried satisfaction.
"We won’t need blood for this war," she said. "Just ti, patience, and precision."
Emma paused at the door. "And what if the Trévérs catch on?"
"Then they’ll act out," Eira replied. "They’ll lash at ghosts and shadows. And the mont they strike at the wrong target... the Ministry will finally step in."
Emma gave her a respectful nod and left the room.
As the door closed behind her, Eira exhaled, slow and steady, and whispered to herself, barely audible over the soft crackle of firewood.
"What have you beco, Eira?"
Her voice trembled—not with emotion, but the weight of awareness. "What have you done? You’ve beco a calculating thing... a scheming little wretch, playing with people’s lives like they were pieces on a board."
She sank into the nearby chair, her hands resting loosely on her lap, eyes fixed on the floor as though the truth might lie buried in the stone beneath her feet.
"Since when did I beco so cold-hearted?" she murmured. "Why does it feel like, with every passing day, I’m losing the last shreds of innocence I ever had?"
The silence didn’t answer, but her mind did.
Fragnts of a darker past—one not written in the books of this world—rose up in her mory. That life. That suffering. The cage she’d once known. The helplessness. The pain that had no na, the betrayal that had no explanation. That world had shaped her, chiseled away at her soul until survival beca instinct, and instinct beca strategy.
She closed her eyes for a mont, letting the thoughts settle.
But this life... this life is different, she thought. It’s mine.
Yes, there had been loss here, too. Pain—of course. But not the sa kind. Here, she had carved out her own space in the storm. Here, she was no longer at soone’s rcy. No longer powerless.
"I can choose," she said softly. "And maybe that’s why I’ve beco this."
Her eyes lifted, calm now, distant. "Because I finally have the power to do so."
She sat there a mont longer, watching the embers burn. Whatever she was becoming—cold, calculating, ruthless—it was born of purpose. Shaped by pain, yes. But wielded by will.
And for now, that was enough for her to protect herself and those around her .
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