Erwin smiled faintly. "Yes, it's been a while, Soren."
He turned to face the newcomer, who was none other than Soren Solent. Soren nodded curtly to Nott before joining Erwin.
"I've thought about you often," Soren said.
Erwin chuckled dryly. "I'm sure I've spared you more headspace than you've given me. After all, keeping you breathing has been a real drag on my spirits."
Soren laughed, though it held no warmth. "Disappointing for you, then. But you carry the blood of the Solent line on your shoulders now."
Erwin sniffed at his sleeve. "Do I? Must've slipped my mind. Perhaps my new cologne drowned it out—Muggle scents are surprisingly effective. You ought to try one sometime."
Soren sneered. "I just might. With so many Cavendishes in the mix, I'm not sure any perfume could cover the stain."
Erwin shrugged. "Who can say?"
Nott cleared his throat, his patience thinning. "Enough nostalgia, you two. Erwin, hold onto the girl from the Worre family. Once we secure the prophecy, the three of us split it three ways."
Erwin shook his head. "As I said, I refuse."
Nott pressed on. "Erwin, this is the Demos and Solent families now."
Erwin met his gaze evenly. "I know. And?"
Nott's tone sharpened. "The Solents still command considerable strength. Even the Cavendishes can't stand against two ancient houses united. Think it over."
Erwin rose from his seat. "The meal tonight left me unsatisfied. I'm off to scrounge some proper midnight fuel. Uncle Nott, if you're planning a move, now's your chance. Otherwise, I'm really going."
Nott's expression darkened like storm clouds.
Erwin glanced between Nott and Soren, a sly smile tugging at his lips as Cassandra trailed behind him. They strode out of the manor without interference.
Outside, the night air hung still and untroubled.
Once they were gone, Valerius Demos—transformed from his earlier reckless guise—couldn't hold back. "Father, was all that necessary? The theatrics?"
Nott sighed. "We can't risk all-out war with the Cavendishes yet. They've surged to dominance too swiftly, practically consolidating the British wizarding world under one banner. The fallout would be catastrophic. Our only play is to nudge him toward the 'right' choice."
Valerius frowned. "But will he buy it?"
Nott paused, then turned to Soren. "If I hadn't seen him today, I'd wager yes. Now? I'm not so sure. Soren, your read?"
Soren sank into a chair, sipping his cooling coffee before shaking his head. "No. The Cavendishes have always been sharp, but this one's a cut above. Terrifying, really. No past patriarch matched what Erwin's achieved—elevating the family to England's unchallenged power in just two years. I couldn't pull that off. So, convincing as your act was, he won't bite. He's Erwin Cavendish."
Nott eyed him. "You hold him in high regard."
Soren's laugh was bitter. "I underestimated him once. Won't happen again. Our grudge match is only starting. We've got a year—then we settle it, winner take all."
Nott nodded thoughtfully. "Fair point. I'm curious myself how far the Cavendishes will climb by then. Adversity forges us both."
Soren stood. "Right, then, Patriarch Nott. Time I was off. The Solents need fresh ground to rebuild if I'm to face the Cavendishes come reckoning."
Nott inclined his head. "The prophecy—you're walking away?"
Soren shrugged. "What does it matter if we know? Fate unfolds as it will. Until the end, no one sees the full picture."
Nott countered, "If Erwin uncovers it all, he'll hold every card."
"So what?" Soren replied. "He already does. The prophecy changes nothing in our clash. Why provoke him head-on? His power's already daunting. I've lost direct fights before—ancient magic's a relic. Time I emulated the Cavendishes and Demos: master the spells of today. Farewell, Patriarch."
Nott watched him go, then turned to Valerius, who asked doubtfully, "Father, are we truly backing off?"
"Let others chase it," Nott said. "If they snag it, fine. If not, no loss."
Valerius nodded. "Why not hold Soren? His bloodline—"
Nott cut him off. "You think he strolled into our lair without contingencies? Never underestimate a foe."
Valerius absorbed that. "Understood, Father."
Nott clapped his shoulder. "The Demos line falls to you one day. Grow fast—your sheltered life left you green. That's your Achilles' heel."
With that, Nott departed, leaving Valerius staring after him, eyes narrowed in contemplation.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Cassandra lingered behind Erwin.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
She knew exactly what he meant. Her fate wasn't in question—Erwin wouldn't surrender her.
"Their father-son tension feels staged," she said. "Like a scripted rift. The Upper Four Houses prize Dragon Whisperer bloodlines above all; succession feuds are rare. They're performing for you, the Patriarch—hoping to lull you into complacency, maybe exploit the 'discord' for a surprise strike later."
Erwin nodded approvingly. "Spot on. It's all theater to drop my defenses, turning their fake divide into leverage for some underhanded ploy. That sort of trick could tip a close fight."
...
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