The soft glow of enchanted lanterns cast golden light across the Ombrelune dormitory. Outside, January winds rattled faintly against the frosted windows, but within the stone chamber, all was still. Most of the girls were still downstairs, laughing and talking in the common room. Eira had excused herself early, her arms carrying a folded copy of La Gazette Magique de France.
She sat at her desk, pulling her thick blanket around her shoulders, and smoothed the crisp parchment. The black headline sprawled across the page, bold and commanding:
UN NOUVEAU MINISTRE POUR UNE FRANCE MAGIQUE
Her eyes darted to the article below, curiosity sharpening her expression.
"After weeks of deliberation and fierce competition among candidates, the French Wizarding Government has formally announced the appointment of Monsieur Lucien Bellerose as the new Minister of Magic. Bellerose, known for his uncompromising stance on law and reform, addressed the press this morning in Paris, outlining his priorities and vision for France's magical community."
Eira tilted her head. She remembered the rumors in the halls—different names tossed about, families campaigning, elders arguing. Now, at last, there was an answer.
She continued reading, her eyes catching on the printed speech transcribed word for word.
"My first duty," said Bellerose, standing at the steps of the Ministry, "is to restore integrity. Too many years have passed with complacency, with unchecked power, with contracts signed in shadows and alliances formed with little regard for the magical public. I will open every ledger, examine every deal, and investigate the legacy of my predecessor without fear or favor."
Eira leaned back in her chair, her brows lifting. He's not afraid to dig into the past… That alone was bold. Few in the Ministry dared to call into question what their predecessors had left behind.
The article pressed on, inked with his next declaration:
"I will also turn my eye toward the ongoing bloodshed between the Voclain and Trévér families. Too many lives have been lost. Shops burned, servants slain, entire households shaken by grief. This feud has bled into the very fabric of France's magical society, leaving ordinary witches and wizards to live in fear. That ends under my watch."
Eira's fingers paused on the parchment, a faint smile curling her lips as the words amused her more than she'd anticipated. She knew the feud intimately—she was the one who had ignited its spark. All to protect the White family's assets in France, she had unwittingly drawn the nation into a web of conflicts. Using Maximilian Voclain and the Trévér family as a distraction, she had solidified her power in both France and Britain. But the cost was steep. For her ambition, she had lost Lolly, her grandmother—though their bond had never been close.
She sighed and reading on.
"I will initiate a full inquiry into the origins of this war and hold accountable those responsible for fueling it. No name, no family, no bloodline will stand above justice. France must heal. If reconciliation between the two houses cannot be brokered by diplomacy, then the Ministry will intervene to impose order. I will not allow our nation to crumble under the pride and vengeance of two ancient families."
The speech, though clipped, carried force. Each line seemed written to strike not only fear but also reassurance—fear in the pure-blood lords who thought themselves untouchable, and reassurance in the ordinary families who longed for peace.
Eira exhaled slowly and closed the paper halfway, resting it against her knees.
She could almost picture the man: Lucien Bellerose, stern-faced, with sharp words and sharper intent. He was not speaking as a mediator, but as a commander drawing lines in the sand. For the first time in months, the Ministry seemed less like a fractured body and more like a power poised to act.
But still—Eira knew how prideful families could be. Would Maximilian Voclain bow to a Minister's will? Would Trévér family accept anything less than vengeance? The blood spilled already weighed too heavily for either side to let go easily.
Her gaze drifted back to the last column of the article.
"Let it be known," Bellerose had concluded, "that France's magical government no longer bends to whispers of blood or lineage. We will bend only to justice. To those who value peace, I extend my hand. To those who value war, I extend the law."
Eira let the paper fall to her desk, the headline staring back at her once more. She drew her blanket closer, her thoughts settled.
Eira's thoughts churned as she considered the new French Minister of Magic, a man who seemed poised to quell the feud—or perhaps it was all a calculated bluff to bolster his own position and curry favor with the French wizarding community. Politicians, whether Muggle or wizard, were cut from the same cloth, always seizing any opportunity to whitewash their image or dangle false hope before their people. Yet a quiet instinct whispered to her that the noble wizarding families of France would never be swayed by such posturing. Their power was too entrenched, their influence too vast, for them to allow anyone to undermine their authority. This Minister, she reasoned, must be one of their own—a carefully chosen figurehead backed by their support. Without the blessing of those elite families, he could never have risen to lead the French Ministry of Magic. The question now loomed: what would Maximilian do in response?