The word hung in the chamber like smoke.
"A curse," Isabelle repeated, her voice calm, measured, as if she had merely suggested hiring more guards. Yet even the fire seemed to hiss at the sound.
Louis rose from his chair so sharply it scraped the floor. "You speak blasphemy! You would have us traffic with corruption itself? If the Church—"
"The Church need never know," Isabelle cut across him, unshaken. Her hands folded before her, her posture regal in its poise. "No blade, no blood. Only a shadow laid across a boy's light. And when his glow fades, the priests will look elsewhere. House de Foncé will remain small, and Montclair will not kneel."
Antoine's restless tapping stilled. He leaned forward, his sharp features half-lit by the fire. "You talk as though you've seen such things."
Her lips curved faintly. "I have."
That froze them. Even Lord Gérard, who had listened in silence, lifted his head.
"When one of our maidservants lay dying years ago," Isabelle said, her voice smooth, steady, "I sought a healer beyond the priests. A woman in the hills. The peasants fear her, leave offerings at her door. They call her witch. She gave me herbs and a word. The girl lived."
Louis gaped. "You consorted with—"
"I consorted with life over death," Isabelle snapped, steel in her tone for the first time. "Call it witchcraft if you must. The girl breathes to this day. And the woman's power is real."
The room went still. The fire crackled, shadows leaping across the carved oak panels.
"And what would this… woman demand," Antoine asked carefully, "for such a curse? Coin? Jewels?"
For the first time, Isabelle hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the fire, then back to her family. "Not coin."
Louis barked a laugh, harsh and disbelieving. "Of course not. Wretches like her always demand filth—blood, flesh, some vile sacrifice."
"You are not wrong," Isabelle said softly. "But hear me before you rage. She does not ask for infants or kin. She asks for souls."
The word struck like a hammer.
Gérard's heavy brow furrowed. "Souls?"
"Ten," Isabelle said. "She told me once—years ago, when I asked what her curses cost—that a great binding requires ten vessels. Souls to fuel the weave. Not babes, not kin. The souls of the condemned, the desperate, the willing to trade their afterlife for coin or escape."
Louis recoiled as though struck. "You would damn ten men to nothingness, to feed a hag's hunger?"
Antoine's face was pale, but his mind moved behind his eyes. "Ten souls bound… not ten bodies slain. There is a difference. Criminals from the gaol, debtors drowning in poverty. There are always men who would sell anything if it spares them pain. We could find them."
Louis spun on him, furious. "You would even consider it?"
Antoine's voice was quiet, steady. "If we do not, then we may soon be bowing to de Foncé. Tell me which fate disgusts you more."
The brothers glared across the table, one burning with outrage, the other with icy calculation.
Lord Gérard remained silent. He stood before the fire, broad shoulders hunched, staring into the flames as though they might answer him. His beard caught the glow, his eyes shadowed. Pride and damnation warred in his chest.
Isabelle stepped closer, her voice soft but cutting. "It is not murder. It is a bargain. The desperate already live half-dead—gaol rats waiting for the rope, beggars who would trade tomorrow for a meal today. Give them a silver coin and a signature, and they will sign their souls gladly. The witch does not care where they come from. Only that there are ten."
Louis's fists clenched white. "You speak as though it is nothing."
"It is not nothing," she said, meeting his glare. "It is survival. Ours. Would you rather see our banners lowered, our name shamed, our children bowing to a family we once called lesser? That is what awaits if we do nothing."
Antoine's voice was a whisper. "And if the curse fails?"
"Then nothing changes," Isabelle replied. "The boy lives, the priests adore him, and we remain where we are. But if it succeeds… we secure Montclair's future."
The chamber fell still again. Only the fire dared speak, hissing and snapping as though mocking their hesitation.
Lord Gérard turned slowly. His face was a mask of iron, but his eyes glowed with the weight of decision.
"You understand what you suggest," he rumbled. "To traffic in souls is no lesser crime than to slit throats. The stain will cling to us forever. If word reaches the Church—"
"It will not," Isabelle said quickly. "No one beyond this room must know. I will go myself. I will take coin and names, enough to seal the pact. If she agrees, the curse will fall. If she does not, nothing is lost but silence."
Antoine's lips pressed thin, but he nodded. "Discretion is possible. A gaoler paid to provide condemned names. A scribe to mark their souls as forfeit. It can be done."
Louis's face twisted. "You're all mad. All of you."
Gérard's hand slammed the table, the sound like thunder. "Enough."
The brothers fell silent. Isabelle's lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
The lord of Montclair straightened, his shadow long against the wall. He saw Henri de Foncé in his mind's eye—stubborn, proud, standing tall with his glowing child. He saw himself kneeling, bowing. The bile of humiliation rose in his throat. Better stained than bowed. Better damned than diminished.
He spoke at last, his voice low and terrible. "Do it. Find the witch. Pay her price. But no one beyond this chamber must ever know. Should a whisper escape, Montclair will burn."
Isabelle inclined her head, her triumph carefully hidden. "As you command, Father. I will leave by dusk."
Louis muttered a curse, turning from them, but he did not leave. Antoine's eyes glimmered with both dread and exhilaration.
The fire roared suddenly, sparks leaping high. Gérard's final words rumbled above the crackle of flame:
"If the Sun favors the boy, then let the Abyss claim him first."
The stag banners stirred in a draft, their silver threads catching the firelight like veins of ice. And though no sound came from the walls, all who stood in that chamber felt it: as though something far beyond those stone halls had already heard their bargain.