Rose exhaled slowly, both hands resting on her belly as she stared at herself in the mirror — unblinking, unsmiling, unreadable.
"He wants me dazzling, unthreatening, and married off to a psychopath."
The words were quiet, almost clinical. But they rang like a curse, stripped of shock, heavy with contempt. She didn't say it to Marlène. She said it to the girl in the glass — the one who wore elegance like armour and obedience like a bruise.
On the table beside her, the note lay open. No seal, no signature. It didn't need one. The handwriting alone — sharp, elegant, devoid of softness — was a weapon she'd memorised since childhood.
Shine. Align yourself publicly with the Rosiers. Make them forget your teeth. Smile like the future depends on it.
It wasn't a request. It never was.
The coat she wore — glowing faintly in the mirror — was part of the message.
A gift, the note had called it. Tailored in Milan. Embroidered by hand. Worn by history.
Her father's idea of generosity: weaponised couture. A uniform stitched in diplomacy and control.
Marlène stood behind her, fastening the final clasp at her throat. The coat shimmered under her fingers — diplomatic finery turned battlefield glamour.
Winter-white fur framed Rose's throat like a vow. Beneath it, brocade sleeves shimmered in silver, green, and pale gold, threaded with runes so old they no longer translated. The skirt flared in structured panels, each hem trimmed with bands of fox fur — soft as breath, sharp as memory. The embroidery caught the firelight like whispered spells. The whole ensemble glowed, like it remembered magic.
Perched in her dark hair was a slim bandeau of white fur, circled like a coronet. Nestled at the centre: a single luminous pearl. It gleamed like a secret.
It didn't hide her. It made her luminous.
"You knew this was coming," Marlène said quietly.
Rose reached for the final hairpin — emerald-tipped — and twisted it into place with a flick of her wrist. Her reflection stared back at her with poise sharpened into armour. And yet — beneath the kohl, her eyes gleamed too brightly.
Not with excitement. Not with rage.
Just a trace too much shine — the kind that lingers after tears held too long in silence.
She hadn't wept loudly. That wasn't her way. But the storm had passed through her — unseen, unspoken — and left its glassy fingerprints behind. The kind of crying you do with your back to the door. The kind no one is meant to catch.
"I was hoping for something more original," she said, voice smooth again. "Maybe a threat. Or a bribe. A reminder of filial duty wrapped in dragonhide."
Marlène didn't answer. She was adjusting the collar again, fingers deliberate. She'd done this a hundred times — with love disguised as duty. Or perhaps the other way around.
Then she reached into a small velvet box and withdrew the signet ring — a heavy emerald set in blackened silver, the Shafiq crest carved so finely it looked like it breathed.
She held it out.
Rose looked at it. Looked at Marlène. Then, without a word, took it from her hand — and set it gently back on the table.
"Being a Shafiq today is heavy enough."
Marlène's jaw tensed. Her eyes flicked to Rose's reflection, searching — not for rebellion. For cracks.
"You'll need the ring."
"No," Rose said simply. "I need not to choke."
She turned slightly and reached for her gloves — not leather, but brocade, shimmering with the same pale green and silver as her coat. The fabric was lined with silk, edged in fox fur at the wrist — refined, impossible, and perfectly unyielding.
The left slid on like memory. The right — as always — caught at the scarred knuckle, snagging slightly where the skin no longer yielded. She didn't flinch. But her silence thickened.
"Rosier will be there," Marlène said after a beat. "So will Orion Black. Nott. Mulciber. Travers. The Bulgarians. And that Delacroix girl the French are so fond of. Every pair of eyes that matters."
Rose smoothed the velvet sash at her waist, her gloved fingers lingering in thought. Her voice, when it came, was sharp velvet.
"Perfect. A whole theatre of aristocrats waiting to see if I curtsy or combust."
"You underestimate Evan," Marlène said quietly. "He's dangerous, yes — but he's brilliant. And he listens. When it suits him. That makes him more useful than most."
Rose's mouth twisted — not quite a smile. "Useful. That's what we're calling it now."
"Don't dismiss every alliance just because it's inconvenient," Marlène murmured. "You don't have the luxury."
"No," Rose said, adjusting the fall of her coat. "But I have the illusion. And today, that'll have to be enough."
Marlène hesitated. Then added, lower: "And you'll need to speak before the match."
That earned a response — Rose tilted her head back, rolled her eyes to the ceiling in one elegant motion, and sighed like a woman forced to endure amateur theatre.
"Dear gods," she said. "Must I be gracious? I was aiming for devastating and brief."
"You can be both."
"Unlikely. But I'll try not to ignite a diplomatic crisis before lunch."
She stood. The coat shifted around her like a spell being drawn.
And in the mirror, the girl who had cried an hour ago was gone. All that remained was velvet, kohl, and steel. She was ready.
She crossed the marble corridor in silence, heels echoing like punctuation. The light in the vaulted hall was cold and unforgiving — perfect for politics.
Kolvsky was waiting near the Portkey pedestal, flanked by two men in grey coats cut so sharply they could've been issued by death itself. They stood like statues, faces blank, boots gleaming.
Rose didn't slow.
When she stopped before them, she tilted her head slightly — just enough to register, not enough to respect.
"Please tell me those aren't mine."
Kolvsky didn't blink. "They're assigned."
"Not to me."
Her gaze slid to the taller of the two — heavy-browed, broad-shouldered, pale as fog. His eyes didn't move, but she felt them. Felt them too long.
"I don't like that one," she said lightly. "He stared at me for seven full seconds. Like I owed him a prophecy."
"That's Ignar," Kolvsky replied, tone neutral. "He has werewolf blood. Tracks magic from miles off. Any kind. He's... useful in crowds."
"Lovely," Rose said dryly. "A magical bloodhound with boundary issues. How charming."
Kolvsky's lip twitched. "He doesn't blink often."
"I noticed. It's less 'bodyguard' and more 'feral ornament.' Does he bite?"
"Only when commanded."
"Reassuring."
She stepped closer — not to submit, but to inspect. Her eyes swept Ignar from boots to brow, slow and unimpressed. Then she turned back to Kolvsky.
"I'm not stepping into a high-profile international event flanked by a man who looks like he sleeps in crypts."
"He's trained—"
"He's glaring."
Kolvsky's tone didn't change. "Your father insisted—"
"Yes. So did mine, when I was five, that I greet guests with a curtsy. We see how well that turned out."
"They're for your protection."
Rose folded her arms. "And yet somehow, I don't feel safer. Just... observed."
"Ignar senses curses."
"So does my intuition, and it's currently screaming."
Kolvsky studied her for a long moment. Then, reluctantly: "I'll assign them to perimeter instead. But you're still exposed."
She smiled — sweetly, falsely, magnificently.
"Good," she said. "Let them come close enough to regret it."
And with that, she stepped onto the Portkey pedestal, one gloved hand brushing the rim of the enchanted goblet.
She paused.
Her voice, when it came, was soft and surgical.
"If this backfires, you can explain to the Prophet why I arrived with a monster on a leash."
The Portkey shimmered.
And Rose vanished in a flash of white, green, and contempt.
The Portkey landed in a soft curl of blue fire — one breath, one heartbeat, and she was there.
The two grey-coated guards reappeared a second later, just behind her. Too close.
She didn't look at them. She looked at Kolvsky.
He met her eyes — cold, unreadable — and gave the faintest tilt of the head.
Keep your dog out of frame, it meant. No words. Just command.
She gave him a single, razor-edged glance — then turned her head, and when her face came back to the crowd, the smile had already bloomed. Smooth. Spectacular. Utterly false.
The foyer was all gleaming stone and curated opulence — torches flickering against arches of carved ivy, champagne flutes suspended midair, conversations pitched just loud enough to matter.
And then she arrived.
No announcement. No flourish.
Just the unmistakable shift in air when someone important enters a room.
Her heels struck the floor like punctuation — poised, polished, perfectly measured. Eyes turned before people even realised they had. Heads followed instinct, not etiquette. The string quartet faltered for half a bar, then caught itself.
Rose Shafiq stepped into the light like a verdict.
She didn't pause. She didn't smile. She simply existed — and the room bent around her.
The Irish Minister for Magic intercepted her first, all polished charm and statesman's fatigue, extending a hand with rehearsed warmth.
"Miss Shafiq," he said. "A true honour."
She took his hand lightly, the brocade of her glove cool and certain.
"Minister. Thank you for receiving me."
Behind him, the British envoy leaned forward too eagerly, smile already too wide.
"Miss Shafiq — what a pleasure. The Prophet is calling this the event of the season."
None of it meant anything. It wasn't meant to.
She recognised a few faces — Delacroix with her predictable drama, a Greengrass heir clinging to a wine glass like a lifeline, two Crouch cousins with their father's chin and none of his cunning. She offered them nothing.
Inside, it prickled. That old feeling.
Of being seen, not known.
Admired, not trusted.
Displayed, never held.
Like a relic of a dynasty that refused to die quietly.
But her smile held. Her posture never wavered.
Above, leaning against the black marble balustrade of the mezzanine overlooking the foyer, Evan Rosier watched her.
He was a silhouette cut from smoke and entitlement — one elbow draped with languid precision, the other hand loosely holding a glass he hadn't touched. The corner of his mouth curled, but not in amusement. Not entirely.
Her gaze didn't drift. It prowled — slow, deliberate, registering everything and conceding nothing. She walked alone beneath the grand arc of the stadium, the onlookers above her like a sea of watching gods.
And when she reached the marble staircase to the ministerial box, she didn't hesitate.
She ascended.
Kolvsky moved closer than necessary, the soft whisper of his coat brushing the back of her sleeve. His breath, low and edged, barely reached her ear.
"Something's off. I can feel it."
Rose didn't turn her head. Her eyes stayed on the box ahead, smile still carved with public poise.
"Of course something's off," she murmured sweetly. "Have you seen the guest list? Half the fanatics loyal to that other deranged half-snake are here playing nice with crystal goblets."
His gaze remained sharp, scanning shadows.
"There's a magical disturbance—"
"There's always a magical disturbance around people who think world domination is a viable hobby," she cut in dryly. "Do stop hovering. You're not my conscience."
Before he could reply, a young journalist with ink-stained cuffs and too much audacity darted forward as she passed.
"Miss Shafiq! Who will you be attending the Malfoy Winter Ball with?"
Rose didn't pause, but her smile turned just a shade more dangerous.
"With purpose," she said. "And a very good tailor."
The flashbulbs caught her again. She didn't blink.
Somewhere, a camera clicked. Then another. Then a storm of them.
In the distance, the Falcons were warming up in a blur of emerald robes, the opposing team in charcoal grey. Banners rippled above the stands — gold and green, black and silver, the symbol of the Squib Foundation emblazoned like a seal against the sky.
As she reached the base of the ministerial box, the announcer's voice crackled through the stadium:
"Now arriving — the Irish Minister for Magic and Miss Rose Shafiq, sponsor of today's charity match and representative of the Squib Foundation."
Applause erupted — sharp, rehearsed, intentional.
Around the box, the most powerful names in magical society leaned forward. House-elves bustled behind them with trays of champagne and enchanted opera glasses.
When she turned her head toward the crowd and smiled — that slow, regal smile, practiced until it passed for instinct — it wasn't flirtation. It was command. She raised her hand in a smooth, imperial wave, warm and poised. Cameras clicked like fireworks. Cheers rose.
Evan's breath caught. That smile — sweetened for the crowd, sharpened beneath — belonged to no girl. It belonged to a sovereign.
He didn't move, but his fingers flexed once around the armrest. "Look at her," he murmured, barely above breath.
Rabastan leaned sideways, his voice a rasp of amusement laced with cruelty. "Careful, Evan. If your trousers get any tighter, the Prophet might print your intentions."
Evan's lips curled into something half-smile, half-snarl. "Let them print it. I want them to know exactly who she'll scream for when the velvet comes off."
Rabastan gave a low, wolfish chuckle. "And if she doesn't?"
Evan's gaze burned hotter. "Then I'll make her beg for it. Elegance makes the best ruin."
Evan's smirk didn't falter. "She's not a woman, she's a coronation. And I intend to be the crown."
Rabastan tilted his head, gaze following the curve of Rose's stride. His voice dropped to a low, mocking drawl. "And how exactly do you plan on mounting that throne?"
Evan's eyes didn't waver. "Carefully. Repeatedly."
Rabastan let out a low whistle. "Just be sure you don't impale yourself on her crown first."
"If I do," Evan murmured, darkly amused, "at least I'll die in velvet."
Yes, he thought. She could destroy an empire. Or build him one.
To the right: Edeline Parkinson, fanning herself with a folded programme, whispering loudly to Daisy.
"Stand straighter, dear. If you blink too much, they'll think you're nervous."
Daisy leaned in, her whisper barely containing delight. "She looks like she's grown a foot in confidence."
"That's posture, not height," Edeline replied, lips pursed, adjusting her gloves with a glance as sharp as a scalpel. "Watch and learn. She's playing them like a harp."
In the centre, the Blacks watched from their elevated seats. Orion Black sat with imperial stillness, fingers steepled, gaze narrowed like a hawk studying a rival predator. He said nothing — he never needed to. But the tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. Rose Shafiq was no longer just a political heirloom — she was becoming dangerous currency. Admirers swarmed her like moths, and Evan Rosier's gaze burned far too brightly.
She should have worn the name Black. It would have anchored her, redirected that dazzling threat toward legacy, not ambition. But the Dark Lord — that calculating architect — had favoured Travers. A misstep, perhaps. Or a warning.
Orion's eyes remained locked on her, unreadable and unrelenting. Watching. Weighing. Wondering if they were making an ally — or breeding a storm.
Beside him, Narcissa's voice was a thread of silk laced with warning. "She'll own the next headline. You'd better decide if you want to be part of it or buried under it."
Regulus tilted his head slightly, his lips parted as if to answer, then closed again. His fingers tapped once against the armrest. Watching Rose climb was like watching a prophecy unfold in real time.
In the first loge, Claire Travers sat beside Regulus Black.
She didn't glance at Rose — but her voice found him like a knife slipping between ribs.
"She rehearsed that walk," Claire said sweetly. "In front of a mirror. I'd wager a tiara."
Regulus didn't respond. His gaze never left Rose.
Claire's tone cooled. "You could at least pretend to blink."
Still nothing.
She exhaled sharply. "People are watching, Regulus."
Only then did he turn his head — slightly, slowly.
"They always watch," he murmured. "But they only remember what they can't look away from."
Claire's smile thinned to a them, murmurs rippled. Names were whispered. Elbows nudged. Eyes tracked her every step. Even the elves paused, drinks in hand, as she passed.
Rose didn't bow. She inclined her head, just barely. Enough to allow interpretation. Enough to command.
The announcer's voice rang again, magically magnified and crisp through the rain-speckled dome: "Miss Rose Shafiq will now say a few words on behalf of the Squib Foundation."
Spotlights turned. Rain whispered against the protective dome above, refracting the light like falling crystal. Rose stood at the edge of the platform — alone — framed by silver mist and emerald fire.
She raised her hand — the left, bare — with a warmth that bordered on majesty. Her smile was gracious, charming, the kind trained into royals and refined into weapons. Her voice, when it rang out, was clear, poised, and threaded with just the right edge of mischief.
"Thank you all for being here today. This match is more than spectacle — it's hope. Hope for a foundation close to my heart, especially as we near the holidays, when no one should be forgotten."
Her left hand danced slightly in the air, her gloved right resting elegantly at her side.
"So I do hope you'll enjoy the game, support the cause, and — if nothing else — remember that emerald is always in season."
There was a ripple of laughter.
She turned slightly, eyes glinting toward the players below.
"And as for my dear Falcons..."
She paused. Smiled with teeth.
"You do remember I like to win."
The team's captain, a rugged wizard in his thirties, laughed and blew her a kiss from midair.
The crowd roared.
Rose stepped back with a nod and took her seat with the same grace she had entered.
Behind her, Narcissa leaned into Regulus with the smooth disdain of a woman who knew exactly what court looked like.
she murmured. "At this point, darling, it's painfully obvious — you want her. Not Claire."
Regulus's jaw clenched. His eyes never left Rose. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"Ah," Narcissa breathed, tilting her head, voice like velvet dipped in poison. "The tragedy of being a Black: all destiny, no choice."
The crowd was still murmuring. And the match began.
Regulus leaned slightly toward Narcissa, his voice low and threaded with calculation. "Did you see that man, Kolvsky? My guess is he hasn't blinked since she arrived."
Narcissa's lips curved, not quite a smile — more an acknowledgement. "They're afraid she'll set the pitch on fire. And frankly, so am I."
Regulus's eyes followed Rose's silhouette as she took her seat. "We should thank her. Personally. Tomorrow."
Narcissa turned her head ever so slightly, her gaze cutting and amused. "Yes, do. Just don't sound like you're proposing. Unless you're ready to duel Rosier."
Regulus's jaw tightened, but his lips curled ever so slightly — not in restraint, but in the smug satisfaction of someone who never doubted he'd be remembered. "She already knows," he said at last, voice like velvet laced with arsenic. "And I rather think she's imagining how many hexes it would take for me to scrape him off her heels — and still have time to toast the win."
The match, meanwhile, exploded into motion below — but for some, the real spectacle was still seated in the box above.
Kolvsky, ever watchful, remained just behind Rose, his posture taut, his eyes flicking like a pendulum across the stadium. He sensed something — not danger, not yet, but the charged tension of being observed. Not just watched. Scrutinised. His gaze darted toward the shadows under the upper stands, lingered on the foreign dignitaries, then returned to the pitch as if trying to trace the invisible thread coiling tighter around the moment.
And he stayed close — too close. The kind of close that telegraphed suspicion more than protection, the kind that made even composed queens twitch in irritation.
Rose bore it with the polished composure of someone who'd long since mastered the art of political martyrdom. Her spine remained straight, her expression delicately interested — but her jaw twitched as the Minister for Magic launched into a rambling anecdote involving a sentient quaffle, a misplaced portkey, and, inexplicably, a goat with a burgeoning political career.
"—the goat somehow got into the dessert hall," the Minister was saying, his voice bright with self-congratulation, "ate the nameplates and half the éclairs before anyone noticed. Remarkable creature. Very decisive. Reminds me of young Bagnold in her early days."
Rose offered a laugh — crystalline, brief, utterly empty. The kind that glittered like glass right before it shattered.
She cast a helpless glance at Daisy, a silent plea hidden behind aristocratic grace. Daisy, halfway through sipping champagne, choked delicately and returned an expression that screamed, "kill me now" without saying a word.
Turning back, Rose smiled at the Minister with the warmth of a winter frost. "Tell me, Minister," she said, her voice a soft lilt edged in satin and sarcasm, "was the goat elected, or simply the most competent mammal in the room?"
The Minister blinked, halfway between bafflement and delight. "Ah! Ha! Well, I suppose—"
"Marvelous," Rose interrupted, her tone all honeyed silk. "Truly inspiring."
She turned to Kolvsky then, not bothering to face him directly, but allowing her words to fall like a drop of poison into a goblet.
"Between magical threats and bad humour," she said with airy venom, "I'd take the Dark Mark any day. At least it's quick."
She turned back toward the match, applauding with deliberate elegance. Kolvsky, behind her, didn't flinch — but she could feel his sigh in the air like static.
"Don't worry," she murmured to no one in particular. "I only bite when bored."
Then came the voice — cutting through the applause like a quill scratched across a fresh scandal sheet.
"Sir Black!"
It rang too loud. Too eager. Too unaware of who it was addressing.
A young journalist, emboldened by proximity and the sharp scent of a headline, weaved through the edge of the crowd and approached the cluster of dark-robed figures flanking the central loge — the Blacks and Travers seated in silent dominion.
He lifted his voice just enough to draw every ear.
"Sir Black!"
"Is it true the alliance between House Black and House Travers now extends beyond politics?"
A silence fell — the kind that doesn't ask permission.
Orion Black turned his head like a hawk who'd spotted prey mid-sentence.
"Politics," he said, each syllable glacial, "are built on blood."
It should have ended there.
But Barnabeus Travers rose, smiling like a man who'd just cashed in his war bonds.
"The alliance," he said, voice clear and cold, "is both strategic... and enduring."
His gaze moved, slow and precise — to Regulus. Then to Claire.
She tilted her head. Smiled.
Regulus didn't blink.
Regulus rose and stepped across the marble toward Evan Rosier's table with the grace of a predator choosing not to bare teeth — yet. Evan looked up, a curl at his lips, already amused.
Regulus stopped just short. Their eyes locked — not casual, not friendly.
Without a word, Regulus clapped Rabastan on the back in passing — not warmly, but like a duelist choosing his seconds. Rabastan grunted, startled and amused.
Then Regulus snatched a champagne flute from the tray of a passing elf with a flick of his fingers that bordered on aristocratic theft. He took a sip without breaking eye contact with Evan, while Rabastan and Mulciber chuckled low over the last dregs of their shared flask, eyes already glittering with anticipation of blood or brilliance.
"You've been watching her all match," Regulus said coolly.
Evan's smile deepened, lazy and laced with danger. "And you've been pretending not to."
Regulus didn't blink. "Save the poetry for someone who fears you."
Evan tilted his head, mock-affection in his tone. "Careful, darling. Jealousy is unbecoming."
Regulus's voice dropped, colder now. "We both know she's not for you."
"Isn't she?" Evan purred. "Then perhaps you should ask why she hasn't burned the bridge."
Regulus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Because she's clever. And she knows we'll both be expected to kneel before a far less forgiving master tomorrow."
The first half ended in a storm of cheers and motion. Players dismounted, commentators howled replays from every enchanted screen, and the ministerial box rippled with murmurs. Rose rose smoothly to her feet, jaw tight.
"I need air," she murmured to no one in particular.
Kolvsky shifted. She raised one hand, the gesture velvet-edged, imperial. "Alone."
Her steps were brisk, too brisk. The pain in her right hand pulsed under the silk lining of her glove like a curse, dull and insistent. Daisy caught up with her at the corridor's curve, breath short, cheeks flushed from scandal and champagne.
"Did you hear what Travers said?" she whispered. "To Orion. About the alliance being 'enduring.' He looked straight at Regulus. And Claire."
Rose didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed. "And Orion?"
"'Politics are built on blood.' That's all he said."
"Of course," Rose said, voice sharp as crystal. "How... poetic."
Narcissa slid from a shadow like a secret escaping confession. "They've already sealed it. Regulus knows. Whether he obeys or bleeds—well. That's the question."
"Dramatic," Daisy muttered.
"No," Rose replied. "That's Black."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
Then she turned — fast — disappearing between two marble columns. She didn't wait for permission. She never did.
Her heels clicked softly now, swallowed by the ancient stone beneath her. The underbelly of the stadium stretched before her like the bones of a forgotten cathedral. Dust clung to dormant enchantments. Magic hung in the air like breath held too long.
She exhaled. Her left hand unclenched. Her right — still gloved — trembled. The pain had sharpened. Her smile had dulled.
She needed to vanish — not from danger, but from expectation. She needed to not be anyone, just for a moment. Not a Shafiq. Not a spectacle. Just Rose.
But silence didn't stay silent long.
A presence unfolded behind her.
A shape peeled from the wall.
She froze.
"Ignar?" she said, voice calm but edged. "What are you doing here?"
No answer.
She stepped back, just once. "You were assigned to the portkey perimeter. This is a restricted area. You're not—"
Still nothing. But his eyes — those eyes. Too still. Too fixed. Like a hound scenting something foul.
"You've been staring at me all day," she said, voice rising. "In the hall. On the steps. Like a bloodhound tracking heat."
He tilted his head. The motion was almost... reverent.
"You're a Shafiq," he rasped, the words thick as bile.
Rose arched a brow, a smile curving like a blade. "Yes. Congratulations. Shall I pin a medal to your snout?"
But then —
A shift. The language changed. Older. Raw.
"Drākha vel'na Veela." She knew what it meant
Her wand hand lifted. Her knuckles screamed beneath the glove.
"Don't," she warned. "I'm not in the mood for religious fervor or outdated mythologies."
He lunged — blade drawn, enchantments pulsing like a dying heartbeat.
She didn't move.
Because someone else already had.
A single curse, green and gorgeous, split the corridor in two.
Ignar didn't reach her. He didn't scream. He simply crumpled — a marionette with his strings cut mid-lunge.
Evan Rosier stepped from the shadows like a punishment.
He didn't run. He didn't pant. He looked bored. Focused. Lethal.
His wand was still raised, lazily.
"You're welcome," he drawled.
Rose's breath came ragged. Her hand throbbed under its glove.
"I had him."
He smirked. "I noticed. You were about to charm him to death with sarcasm."
"Why are you here?"
"Curiosity," he said. "And Kolvsky's dog stared at you like lunch. I don't share."
Kolvsky arrived, coat snapping, wand drawn but unnecessary. He crouched over the body, face blank.
"Ex-mercenary. Balkan. Escaped from St. Mungo's psychiatric ward. Hates Veela magic. Probably considered heresy."
Rose's lips parted. "How did he get assigned to me?"
Kolvsky's silence was answer enough.
"Someone will pay for this," she said. "Make sure of it."
"I will," Kolvsky said. Then, turning to Evan: "That curse. Rare. Precise. Beautifully dark."
Rosier's smirk flicked, almost fond. "Family tradition."
Rose turned to leave — but paused. Her posture regal. Her voice, dry.
"Thank you."
Evan looked at her, something flickering in the lines of his jaw. "Don't get used to it. I'm not your savior."
She didn't answer. Rose turned slightly, her chin lifted, her gloved hand curled tight against her side.
"I'm going back," she said, voice calm and crystalline. "No one must know."
Kolvsky held her gaze, sharp and unreadable.
"You'll finish the match?"
"With poise," she replied. "And you will deal with him."
Her eyes dropped to the corpse as if it were an unsightly wrinkle on a carefully pressed robe. "Burn the body, erase the trail, invent a story. That's what you're for."
Kolvsky inclined his head — the gesture small, absolute.
"If this leaks," Rose added, her voice velvet-laced with venom, "whoever allowed it will wish they'd joined him in the fire."
She turned on her heel, her coat whispering power behind her, and walked away with the weight of command stitched into every step — as if nothing had happened, and she was already halfway to rewriting the narrative.
Behind her, Evan stared at his hand
It was trembling.
Not with thrill.
With fear.
He clenched it into a fist.
"She's brave," Kolvsky murmured.
"No," Evan said. "She's infuriating."
Then, quieter: "And I'm going to make someone bleed for this."