The sun rose pale over Château de Montclair, its light turning the white stones of the keep into a canvas of gold and shadow. From the battlements to the stables, whispers traveled faster than the morning bells. Courtiers huddled in corners, servants scurried with ashen faces, and armored retainers muttered behind clenched jaws.
The news had arrived at dawn with the Church's messengers. Rogue de Foncé had not only survived the curse — he had emerged changed, marked by both Light and Dark. The priests themselves, who had witnessed the event, now claimed he might be a child chosen for a destiny even greater than the Witch Hunters. Some spoke his name with awe. Others with dread.
By the time the messengers departed, the halls of Montclair were choked with rumors. The curse had failed. And worse, House de Foncé, that ragged little barony clinging to life in the north, was now spoken of as favored by the Light.
Lord Gérard de Montclair sat upon his high-backed chair in the marble hall, his knuckles white against the carved armrests. His once-proud face was twisted with rage, lips pressed into a hard line.
Before him, Louis paced like a caged beast, his boots striking sharp echoes across the polished floor. "Impossible!" he snarled. "The boy should be ashes in the ground! That witch promised!" His hand fell to his sword hilt, gripping it until the leather creaked. "And now the priests call him chosen? Chosen?! This is an insult. An outrage!"
Antoine sat apart, calm where his brother boiled. His thin fingers tapped the arm of his chair, his eyes half-lidded with thought. "The insult is not merely to us," he murmured. "It is to the order of things. If the Church raises de Foncé above us, if they whisper this boy may become the next great Witch Hunter… what then? Our house will be diminished. First equal, then subordinate. And once that happens, every noble family in the south will treat us as prey."
Gérard's jaw clenched. His voice rumbled low, dangerous. "Do you think I do not see it, Antoine? Do you think I do not know what this means? Not only did the curse fail… it has made them stronger. The Light itself now stands behind them!"
He slammed his fist onto the armrest with such force the marble cracked faintly beneath his ring. Servants flinched and ducked their heads.
Louis wheeled on his father, his voice wild. "Then let us finish what the witch could not! Give me men, and I will burn that pitiful castle to the ground. Let the priests whimper over their miracle while we cut the boy's head from his shoulders!"
"Silence!" Gérard's shout cracked like a whip. His eyes blazed as he glared at his eldest son. "Do you think the Church would stand idle if we moved against them now? Have you forgotten what it means to challenge the Witch Hunters' chosen? You would not only bring ruin upon us, you would bring execution!"
Louis's mouth snapped shut, though his chest heaved with fury.
Antoine's voice slid into the silence, soft as oil. "The truth is, we are cornered. The Church watches us now. The more we struggle, the more their eyes narrow. Our sister's folly has set us all upon the gallows' edge."
At those words, all eyes turned to Isabelle.
She stood near the pillar, her hands trembling against the folds of her gown. The color had drained from her face, her lips bloodless. She had not spoken since the dawn news had arrived. Now she lowered her head, refusing to meet her father's gaze.
Gérard's stare lingered on her, cold and unflinching. He did not speak, but his silence was louder than words.
Louis sneered openly. "She brought this upon us. She swore the witch would succeed. And now look — our enemies rise while we sink into disgrace."
Antoine's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes flicking between his sister and father. He said nothing, but the faintest curve of his lips suggested he knew where the weight of blame would soon fall.
Isabelle's hands clenched tighter. At last, she lifted her chin, her voice brittle but steady. "I did it for us. For Montclair. For you." Her eyes glistened as she looked at Gérard. "Father, you agreed. You knew what was at stake. I only acted because I believed it would save us."
The hall went still.
Gérard's face was carved stone. He did not deny it. But neither did he answer. His silence pressed on Isabelle like the crushing weight of a tomb.
Louis spat on the floor, his fury spilling. "Save us? You've doomed us. The boy is a miracle now, and the priests whisper he may be destined for greatness. If they raise de Foncé above us, you will have cost this house everything!"
Isabelle's breath came quick and shallow. "It was supposed to work. The witch promised—"
"The witch lied," Antoine cut in smoothly. His voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the hall. "And now the Church will come. When they do, they will not ask politely. They will demand answers. And they will not care if it was you alone, or all of us. They will decide. And their judgment will be final."
His words dropped into silence like stones into a well.
Gérard leaned back into his chair, his face shadowed beneath the morning light streaming through the high windows. His mind churned with fury and calculation. The curse had failed. The boy had survived. And worse, the Church had turned this disaster into divine spectacle.
His house was now marked. The priests would come. The Witch Hunters would follow.
And when they did… Gérard knew, with cold certainty, that someone would have to pay the price.