The door to the inner chamber stood ajar, the darkness beyond humming with quiet menace. Eira's boots made no sound on the cold stone floor as she approached, her wand angled low, her breathing steady. She had fought her way here—every assailant silenced, every trace erased—but this was the heart of it. The leader's den.
She pushed the door open with a whisper of magic. The hinges groaned softly.
Inside, the room was sparsely furnished but deceptively elegant: a single wooden desk with a single chair, shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, and a wide window draped in heavy crimson curtains. A faint candle burned in the room , casting shifting shadows across the floor. At the far end, a man stood with his back to her, staring at a map pinned to the wall.
He turned.
The leader was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark robes without insignia. His hair was cropped short, his face pale and angular, the sort that belonged to someone who had seen war and survived it. His eyes—grey, unblinking—locked onto hers, and a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.
"So," he said, voice low and even. "The White heiress herself."
Eira stepped inside, letting the door close behind her. "You knew I was coming."
"I counted on it." He flicked his wrist, and his wand appeared in his hand as though conjured from shadow. "You've made quite a mess on your way here."
Eira didn't rise to the bait. "I clean up after myself."
"Then let's see how tidy you are when it's your blood on the floor."
There was no further warning. A jet of molten-orange light tore through the space where she had been standing, scorching the doorframe. Eira rolled sideways, landing in a crouch, and snapped off a shimmering shield charm.
A fierce fight broke out between them.
He moved like a predator, his spells precise and vicious—slashing arcs of green, whiplashes of violet flame, razor-edged wind blades that sliced the air with audible shrieks. Eira countered each in turn, her own wandwork an intricate dance: deflect, sidestep, riposte. She never wasted motion.
A streak of silver lightning lanced past her shoulder—non-lethal but designed to blind. She ducked, sending a wave of concussive force toward him. He absorbed it with a curved barrier, the shock rippling around him harmlessly.
"You're surprisingly talented for someone your age," he sneered between volleys. "Every so-called noble blood I've faced ended up crawling on the ground, crying and begging for mercy. Pathetic."
"You're worse than I expected."
His eyes narrowed, and the pace doubled. Books exploded off shelves as a twisting jet of black energy struck her barrier; the floor cracked under the weight of a transfigured stone spike. Eira's wand became a blur, each spell flowing into the next:
—Petrificus Totalus! A snap of his wrist shattered it.
—Expulso! He redirected the blast into the wall, stone dust raining down.
—Confringo! The desk splintered, flames licking across the floor.
The room became a storm of heat, light, and sound.
*******
Eira felt the duel shift—a subtle change in rhythm. He was testing her reactions, measuring the moment to strike decisively. She gave him nothing but precision.
A coil of fire lashed toward her—she twisted it into a harmless spiral of sparks. He hurled a dagger of raw force—she bled its momentum into the floor with a grounding charm.
"Who trained you?" he asked suddenly, almost conversationally.
Eira didn't answer. Instead, she flicked her wand in a sharp half-arc, summoning a barrage of crystalline shards from thin air. They hissed toward him like frozen rain, each one humming with kinetic energy.
He dissolved them into mist.
The air between them grew heavy, charged—not with fear, but anticipation.
"You can't win," he said almost gently. "You're at a disadvantage. You don't have the magical strength to sustain a long fight. I'm an adult—I can keep going, but you're just a child."
Eira's eyes narrowed. "Then I'll just have to finish this before you get the chance."
*******
The final exchange came without warning. He unleashed a chain of transfigured weapons—spears, chains, and spinning blades—each flowing into the next with deadly speed. Eira bent under them, pivoting in a controlled arc, the motion carrying her wand up high.
"Enough," she murmured.
Her wand came down in a sharp, deliberate strike.
"Tonitrus Percutiens."
The lightning came instantly—pure, searing, white-gold. It tore down from nowhere, cracking the air with a sound like the sky splitting in two. The bolt struck him squarely in the chest, and for an instant, the room was pure light.
When it faded, the leader stood motionless. Smoke curled from the blackened edges of his robes. His eyes, still open, held a moment's disbelief—then he collapsed, the smell of ozone lingering in the air.
*******
Eira exhaled slowly, lowering her wand. The adrenaline was there, but controlled—channeled into the methodical calm she always maintained after a kill. She stepped forward, flicked her wand in a small circle, and the body shimmered, then vanished entirely—gone from sight, gone from discovery. The scorch mark on the floor followed. No trace.
It was only then that she noticed the envelope on the desk, untouched by the chaos. Thick parchment, sealed with crimson wax. Her name was written on the front in elegant, looping script:
To Eira White
Her brow furrowed. She broke the seal.
Inside, the letter was written in flowing, almost playful handwriting:
{Did you see my little prank? How was it?
I thought it would be fun to see what you'd do—whether you'd run, or wriggle free, or have some gallant rescuer sweep you away.
Since you're reading this, I suppose you managed something. Credit where it's due, my dear.
But tell me… did you enjoy yourself? I know I did, Remember, I promised I would never let you go. You will become mine—this is only the beginning. I will torment you endlessly until you come to me willingly, from your own heart.}
Beneath the words, there was a lipstick kiss in deep, vivid red. Under it, the signature: 💋
Alina Trévér
Eira stared at it for several seconds, her grip tightening on the parchment until it crinkled. Not fear—no, she'd long grown accustomed to ambushes and games. But the audacity of it, the calculated mockery, was enough to draw a thin, humorless smile to her lips.
She folded the letter with deliberate care, slid it into her coat, and turned toward the window. Outside, the sun was setting, dipping low on the horizon as evening approached.