The west wing of the Voclain Manor was quiet, but not calm. The air inside the private study was dense, weighed down by tension and the scent of dried lavender that had long since lost its soothing charm. Sunlight tried to break through the tall stained-glass windows but failed; it cast fractured patterns of gold and crimson across the floor, like wounds that couldn't heal.
Maximilian Voclain sat behind the grand mahogany desk—his desk now, ever since their father had died. He wore the black-and-silver robes of the Voclain patriarch, his sharp features cast in shadow. His wand lay on the desk, beside a stack of open letters—some torn, some unread, all urgent.
Across from him sat Isabella Voclain, Minister of Magic, her formal robes abandoned in favor of simple dark attire. Her posture was straight, dignified, but her eyes betrayed the fury she was trying to contain. At the far side of the room, seated in silence by the fireplace, was René Voclain, their mother—the once-formidable matriarch who now spoke rarely and watched often.
"We can't wait for another attack," Maximilian said coldly, tapping the desk with a single finger. "The Trévérs are pressing in. Their reach grows by the hour, and their allies are beginning to show themselves. We need to act."
"We are acting," Isabella replied, her tone clipped. "We're securing properties, coordinating protections, and—more importantly—we're keeping the public from panicking. That's what leadership looks like."
Maximilian scoffed. "Leadership without strategy is suicide. You're too soft. Your office may be full of quills and charters, but this is blood. War. And we need leverage."
"And what do you propose?" Isabella asked bitterly. "Open retaliation? That's exactly what they want. You want to pour oil on fire?"
Maximilian leaned forward.
"No. I want to use someone who can hold a torch."
Isabella's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
Maximilian's voice dropped, thoughtful and razor-sharp. "Eira White. She's a good decoy, she's a White. And she's sitting in the center of this chaos. We can push the Trévér family toward her. They already have a grudge. All it takes is a whisper, a nudge. If they attack her, the Whites will be forced to respond. That creates enough noise—enough chaos—for us to strike the Voclain enemies directly while their allies are distracted. Simple and Clean."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Isabella stood so quickly her chair scraped the marble floor.
"You will do no such thing."
Maximilian blinked.
"I warned you once," Isabella said, voice trembling with fury. "Do not touch her. Do not involve her in this. She is my niece, and she is still a child."
Maximilian rolled his eyes. "She's hardly a child. She walks around giving speeches like a noble, commands loyalty, holds political weight—"
"She is not ready for war!" Isabella snapped. "She's grieving her grandfather, managing what's left of her house, being hounded by press and assassins alike. And now you want to use her as bait? You'll throw her to the Trévér family just to buy yourself a few days of tactical advantage?"
Maximilian rose now, voice matching hers. "I'm trying to keep this family alive, Isabella! I'm doing what needs to be done."
"You're sacrificing your own blood!" Isabella roared. "Your niece! Your sister's daughter!"
And then—without hesitation—she reached forward and hurled the delicate porcelain teacup sitting on the table straight into his face. It shattered against his cheek and spilled hot tea across his robes. He staggered back, stunned.
"You dare—!" he growled, wand already half-drawn.
But Isabella was quicker. Her wand was already at her side, glowing with magic she wasn't bluffing with. "Try me," she hissed.
Silence returned, thick as smoke.
Isabella's voice was lower now, dangerous in a different way.
"If I see so much as a rumor connecting you to Eira, I will withdraw all Ministry protection from the Voclain family. All of it. No more Auror escorts. No more diplomatic immunity. No more shielding enchantments on our vaults. I will leave you open to the wolves you helped create."
Maximilian's jaw tensed, but he didn't speak.
Isabella stepped closer. "And I will make it public. I will let the Trévér family do what they want. I'll let the Trévérs tear this house down brick by brick if it keeps her safe."
Maximilian's eyes darted to the corner of the room.
Their mother, René, still hadn't moved.
Isabella turned sharply, breathing hard.
"Say something, Mother. Say something to your son. Say something about your granddaughter. About your daughter's daughter, the only thing left of her."
René didn't respond. She stared into the fire, as if it offered answers that her children couldn't. Her lips were pressed into a faint, unreadable line. She blinked once, slowly, but said nothing.
Isabella's face twisted with fresh hurt. "You always used to say we protect our own. You said family was everything. What happened to you, Mother?"
Still, no answer.
"What happened to the woman who stared down foreign ambassadors in our drawing rooms? Who sent back cursed roses from suitors with a tracking hex stitched in the petals? What happened to the strongest woman I ever knew?"
René shifted slightly, but didn't turn. The fire crackled.
"You've become a coward," Isabella whispered. "Since Father died, you've let Maximilian do whatever he wants. You sit in silence while your granddaughter's life is traded for convenience. And that—" she pointed a shaking finger "—that is pathetic."
Maximilian's glare had cooled into steel. "Enough."
But Isabella was already walking away, her coat swirling behind her like smoke.
"I'm going to protect her," she said, her voice still loud. "With or without this family's help."
She stopped at the door, turning only once.
"Do not test me again, brother."
Then she was gone.
Maximilian stood there for a moment, tea still dripping from his collar.
Across the room, René finally spoke. Her voice was quiet and almost brittle.
"You speak of war, Max… but you forget—wars are never won without cost."
Maximilian glanced toward her. "And what would you know of cost, Mother?"
René looked at him now—truly looked, for the first time in days.
"I lost a daughter," she said softly. "I won't lose her child too."