Godric stirred as the first threads of sunlight crept through the thick velvet curtains lining the interior, their glow muted and soft. The air was steeped in the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine, subtle and steady, easing into him with a comfort he had not known in years. Beneath him, the cabin swayed gently as the wheels rolled over loose stone and sand, yet there was none of the jarring turbulence he had come to expect from common carriages back in his own world.
Except this was no carriage.
It moved with a smoothness that bordered on uncanny, less wood and leather than steel and craft, powered by Lacrima rather than horseflesh. An automobile in all but name.
He groaned quietly, blinking sleep from his eyes as the seat cradled him in a way that felt almost indulgent, its softness enveloping him like a cocoon. As his awareness returned, he took in the spacious interior, rich and deliberate in its design, lavender cushions set against gold-lined trim that caught the morning light. Across from him sat Jeanne, her head resting against the draped window, still deeply asleep, her breathing slow and even.
Godric had no sense of how much time had passed since they had bid farewell to Salazar, Helga, and Rowena, leaving the city behind for a destination unfamiliar to them both. The journey had been so smooth, so unbroken, that distance itself felt meaningless, as though they were gliding rather than travelling. It reminded him of the airship ride to Camelot, the same quiet suspension between departure and arrival.
Even now, Avalon defied easy understanding.
The evolution of its technology left him unsettled, a world where magic was not merely commanded or feared, but harnessed, fused seamlessly with steel and innovation. The result was an amalgam of advancement that would have been unthinkable in his time. He snorted softly at the thought, imagining how such inventions would have been received in Dark's Hollow. The poor soul responsible would have been dragged into the square, branded a heretic, and burned as an agent of the devil.
More unsettling still was the realization that, had he never left, had Headmaster Blaise not brought him to Avalon, he would have stood among them, sharing their fear, their certainty, and their ignorance, never questioning a world that punished progress simply for daring to exist.
His crimson gaze drifted to the curtain, curiosity tugging at him until he could no longer resist it. He reached out and drew the heavy fabric aside, and at once the morning sun poured into the cabin, flooding it with warmth and light.
Godric's breath caught.
The world beyond the glass unfolded into a vast, open countryside, stretching as far as the eye could see in a riot of color. Fields of lavender rolled outward in soft purples, broken by the deep reds of roses and the bright yellows of tulips and carnations, their hues blending into one another like. Beyond them, rich green farmland crept steadily toward distant mountains, their peaks capped in white, sharp against the clear sky.
There were no walls hemming the land in, no barricades of stone or steel. No towering spires, no airships cutting crystalline trails through the heavens, no haze of smog carrying the sweet scent of industry. The sky was open and unclaimed, the land wide and breathing.
"Blimey…" The word slipped from him before he realized he had spoken aloud.
A soft rustle from the opposite seat drew his attention as Jeanne stirred. She shifted, blinking herself awake, squinting against the sudden light as she raised a hand to shield her eyes. "Mmm, is it morning?" she murmured. "Where are we?"
"Good morning," Godric said quietly. "And hell if I know, but I'll say this much, it's a sight to behold."
Jeanne straightened at once, reaching for the curtain and drawing it aside. The moment her amethyst eyes found the view beyond the glass, they widened. "You're right," she breathed, almost a gasp. "By God… it looks just like home, only more…"
"Beautiful?" Godric offered, tilting his head.
She nodded, and he chuckled softly in agreement.
"I'm with you on that." He let out a slow breath. "I've been surrounded by stone and steel for so long, I forget what it feels like to be out there. Just the world, untouched, laid bare in all its natural glory." His words eased, reflective. "I'm still a stickler for civilization, mind you, but sometimes… sometimes you've got to stop and take a breather."
His gaze drifted downward, thoughtful. "Remind yourself that no matter how much darkness you see in the world, you can't let it blind you to what's truly there."
Jeanne blinked, her expression slack for a heartbeat before she tried to stifle a laugh, failed, and let out a soft chuckle.
Godric lifted an eyebrow, a quiet laugh following. "What?"
"I'm sorry, it's just…" Jeanne hesitated, a gentle smile settling on her lips. "I've heard Salazar, Helga, and Rowena speak of the real you, back before…" Her words trailed off, her expression dimming slightly. "You know. And for a long while, I wasn't sure I believed it."
Godric rubbed the back of his head, glancing aside with a sheepish smile. "Yeah. I can't say I blame you."
She nodded once. "Now it feels like I'm getting to know you all over again." Her smile warmed. "And honestly, you're every bit the boy they spoke so highly of."
Jeanne's gaze softened as she continued, her words measured and sincere. "I suppose sometimes we all have to get a little lost before we can see the truth. That no matter how far we fall, or how much faith we lose along the way, there's still good in this world." She tilted her head slightly. "And that it's worth fighting for."
Her eyes met his. "You've stood at the very edge of darkness and still found the courage to turn back toward the light." A quiet smile touched her lips. "I can't think of anyone more deserving of the name The Lion of Ignis."
She paused, the weight of her words settling before she continued more softly. "And if I were granted one wish, one hope, it would be this. That should I ever find myself where you once stood, the Lord might see fit to grant me even a measure of the courage you carry."
Godric blinked as warmth rose to his cheeks, a quiet chuckle escaping him as he rubbed the back of his head. "Come on, Jeanne, you're embarrassing me." He shook his head, the edge of his smile softened by genuine discomfort. "Sure, they call me the Lion of Ignis. The Hero of Caerleon. But the truth is, I'm no one special. I'm not a champion, and I'm certainly not the paragon the world seems so determined to turn me into."
He drew a slow breath. "I'm just a boy trying to do right by it, and more than that, trying to do right by myself." Their eyes met. "And if you ask me, you're plenty brave already, Jeanne."
A gentle silence settled between them, unhurried and companionable, until it was broken by the soft slide of metal. Both their gazes shifted to the peephole behind Jeanne, its frame worked in gold, as Ramsay's eyes came into view.
"Good morning, Miss D'Arc, Mister Gryffindor," the old man said. "For your awareness, we are approaching the town of Meyruelle. From there, it will be roughly an hour's journey onward to Château D'Arc."
Godric leaned closer to the window as alabaster walls and sun-warmed tiles emerged in the distance. The town's architecture bore a resemblance to Stornoway, yet there was something more exotic in its lines and colors. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the road below gleamed with faded yellow brick, worn smooth by generations of passing feet. It had the unmistakable feel of a proper town, lived in and lived for.
"Speaking of which," Jeanne said, her curiosity surfacing as she looked back toward the peephole, "if you don't mind me asking… where exactly are we?"
"We are within the territory of Carcassonne," Ramsay replied. "A fair distance from Camelot, and quite removed from the bustle of the Crown City, which I am certain you've already noticed."
Jeanne turned back to the window, taking in the rolling fields as a soft sigh escaped her. "It's breathtaking."
"Yes," Ramsay agreed mildly. "And I suppose it bears mentioning that everything you see," he continued, his gaze gesturing beyond the carriage, "from this point to the mountains beyond, lies within D'Arc territory."
Both Jeanne and Godric froze.
"T-t-t-territory?" Jeanne echoed, her eyes widening. "Y-you mean…" She lifted a trembling finger toward the view outside. "All of this?"
"Is your birthright, Miss D'Arc," Ramsay said evenly. "As the scion of House D'Arc, all of Carcassonne belongs to you. And with it comes both its weight… and its authority."
Jeanne turned her stunned gaze back to Godric, who could only lift his shoulders in a helpless, almost apologetic shrug.
Ramsay released a quiet sigh. "That being said," he continued, his tone measured and reassuring, "I would not trouble myself over what-ifs just yet. Rest assured, my lady will do her utmost to ease whatever worries may be plaguing you and to bring clarity to whatever doubts still linger." His gaze settled on Jeanne, steady and composed. "Until then, I would implore you not to dwell on it overmuch."
With that, the metal plate slid shut, sealing the peephole once more.
Godric leaned forward, steepling his fingers as his elbows came to rest on his lap. "He's right," he said calmly. "There's no use jumping to conclusions. For now, let's just enjoy the ride. I'm sure everything will make sense soon enough."
Jeanne eased back into her seat, though the unease lingered plainly on her face as she nodded. "I know," she admitted softly, "but I still can't shake this feeling."
"Don't worry," Godric said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "If it all turns out to be a sham and things do go south…" His gaze flicked briefly to his ornate sword resting majestically against the side of the cabin. "Well, they'd best be ready to throw everything they've got at us." His smile sharpened, quiet and resolute. "Because after what we did in Caerleon, they'd be fools to try."
****
The town of Meyruelle revealed itself as quaint and timeworn, a place steeped deeply in tradition. Dull brick walls lined the narrow streets, their rough, eroded surfaces shedding grains of red sand that collected in the cracks below. The road itself was uneven and damp, winding through a dense cluster of buildings set so close together that the walls seemed to press inward, as though the town were folding in on itself with age.
The people reflected the place they lived. Their clothing was simple and practical, woven in muted tones, far removed from the polished fashions of the Crown City. There was no need here for display or excess, only garments made to endure daily labor rather than announce status.
The air carried the layered scents of life being lived. Fresh bread drifted from the bakers' ovens, mingling with the earthy sharpness of produce from the farmers' stalls and the heavier tang of meat hanging on hooks outside the butchers' shops. Citizens moved along the pavements with quiet purpose, absorbed in their routines.
For Jeanne, the town stirred a deep sense of nostalgia, a living window into the world she had once known as home. For Godric, it carried a different weight, a premonition of what Dark's Hollow might one day become as years passed and time pressed forward. Wonder and awe mingled within him, tempered by a thread of unease. He was among the rare few who had glimpsed the arc of human civilization, who had seen what might await in the centuries yet to come.
Yet neither of them could ignore the attention.
Eyes followed the carriage as it passed, curious, reverent, and unblinking, as though the townsfolk were watching royalty glide through their streets. The emblem of House D'Arc adorned the doors of the automobile, and the same sigil appeared again and again throughout the town, carved into stone facades or mounted upon weathered wooden signs.
Godric lifted an eyebrow, noting the range of expressions, open admiration, quiet respect, and the occasional scowl. It was to be expected. Not everyone offered loyalty or love freely, just as not everyone accepted a world where some lived in comfort while others labored endlessly for a meager bowl of soup, all while being told they ought to be grateful for it.
As the resonant chimes of the clock tower rolled across Meyruelle and vibrated through the carriage, the automobile pressed onward. With each measured turn of the hour hand and the steady grind of unseen gears, the town fell away behind them. The road carried them into rolling hills and vast fields of grain, golden and heavy beneath the sun, before slipping beneath the shadow of towering, ancient trees. Their canopies interlaced overhead, casting a shifting mosaic of light and shadow across the trail as the carriage glided through.
True to Ramsay's word, nearly an hour passed before the land opened once more. The trees gave way to a wide expanse of flowers, colors stretching to the horizon in a living sea.
Godric and Jeanne could only watch in silence as the road curved gently ahead. Rising from the far side of the field stood a castle manor, immense and unmistakably grand, dwarfing the humble town they had left behind. Polished gray stone formed its walls, pristine and commanding, while sapphire-hued spires pierced the sky above. A moat of crystal-clear water encircled the estate, reflecting the light like glass.
The grounds were immaculate. Emerald lawns were trimmed with surgical precision, the emblem of House D'Arc carved into the grass alongside intricate floral designs. Carefully shaped hedges formed winding paths, enclosing gardens filled with every manner of plant, some familiar, others unmistakably exotic.
Both of them felt their breath catch, eyes widening at the sight.
Jeanne had seen the homes of nobles before, estates marked by wealth and prestige, but never anything approaching this. This was not merely a residence. It was a statement, vast and impossible to ignore.
The automobile slowed as it approached the gates.
They rose tall and imposing, forged from obsidian and trimmed in gold, their gothic design sharp. Once again, the emblem of House D'Arc dominated the center, cast in bright gold and impossible to miss. The wheels crunched over loose pebbles set into polished alabaster stone, the sound grounding and heavy as the carriage passed beneath the arch.
Godric's attention drifted immediately.
Guards stood watch at the gates, their presence unmistakable. Each wore ornate armor accented by dark lavender sashes and gold fleur-de-lis emblems. Their helmets were immaculately carved in silver, traced with gold filigree, swords hanging at their sides while spears rested firmly in hand. His crimson eyes tracked them as they moved, spotting more patrols sweeping the grounds in disciplined patterns. Along the perimeter, crystalline pylons pulsed softly with contained energy, their glow reminiscent of the wards that ringed Camelot's walls.
Something about it all set his instincts on edge.
"Something the matter, Godric?" Jeanne asked, noticing his focus.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "It's just… that's a lot of security for a noble house that claims it's stepped away from politics."
The peephole slid open with a sharp scrape of metal. "Abstinence, Mister Gryffindor, does not equate to an absence of conflict," Ramsay replied evenly. "Neutrality, after all, is rarely respected by those who do not share it."
Jeanne's concern surfaced at once. "Are you saying House D'Arc has enemies?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Ramsay said calmly. "I am merely a servant, Miss D'Arc. It is neither my place to confirm nor to speculate." His gaze lingered. "As I have said before, all will be revealed in time."
"Convenient," Godric muttered, a faint scowl touching his features.
The automobile curved smoothly into the heart of the courtyard, slowing before a majestic fountain set at its center. Rising from the basin was a statue carved from polished marble, depicting a lady holding a flag aloft, her features serene as water cascaded down the sculpted folds of stone into the pool below. Lavender irises ringed the fountain's base, their blooms forming a perfect circle against the pale marble.
As the vehicle came to a halt, the crystalline engine fell silent. The doors opened, and Ramsay himself stepped forward to the passenger side. He opened the door with practiced ease, bowed, and gestured inward with a gloved hand.
"As Master of the House," he said, "I bid you welcome to Château D'Arc."
Jeanne stepped out first, her boot crunching softly against the loose gravel of the courtyard. Ahead of her rose a broad staircase of polished marble, each step illuminated by the warm amber glow of embedded crystals. On either side stood a dozen servants, maids and butlers alike, their uniforms immaculate, their posture flawless as they bowed in unison.
Jeanne could only stare, her jaw threatening to fall open.
Godric followed, stepping out with his sword in hand, his expression remaining guarded despite the grandeur surrounding them.
Ramsay closed the door behind them and gestured toward the entrance. "This way, if you please." He inclined his head slightly. "My lady will be most pleased to finally make your acquaintance."
Jeanne cast a brief, knowing glance at Godric. He returned it with a nod, securing his sword across his body as they turned and made their way toward the grand entrance together.
****
As they stepped through the vast oaken doors, they were greeted by a grand interior carved from pristine stone, its walls a warm sandy beige, smooth and meticulously laid. A floor of black-and-white checkered marble stretched across the landing, its polished surface reflecting the soft light above. Tall windows framed in obsidian iron rose along the walls, their gothic designs casting angular shadows, while deep oaken furnishings lined the hall with quiet authority.
Crystal sconces bathed the space in a muted amber glow, their light glinting off polished suits of armor positioned beside the pillars that supported the upper corridors. Ahead of them, a grand staircase curled upward toward the second floor, its bannisters sweeping elegantly, while banners of House D'Arc hung from above, their presence echoed by an iron chandelier suspended overhead.
Dominating the space above the staircase was a large portrait.
It depicted a man with brown hair and a thick mustache, his brown eyes fixed in a stern, uncompromising gaze. He wore a prestigious uniform heavy with medals, an ornate saber sheathed at his side, his gloved hand resting firmly on its hilt. Beside him sat a woman with platinum-blonde hair, her cream-and-gold gown flowing as she rested on a velvet chair. Her sapphire eyes were kind, her smile warm, as she cradled a baby in her arms. Standing before the man was a younger boy, no older than six, dressed regally, his posture tentative yet proud.
The oils of the portrait shimmered softly in the light.
Godric lifted an eyebrow, noting Jeanne's reaction as she stared at the painting. Her eyes narrowed slightly, fixed on the young boy, a strange sense of familiarity stirring within her, one she could not yet name or fully grasp.
"It's beautiful, no?"
The voice came from above, light and lilting.
Godric and Jeanne both snapped their attention to the upper walkway overlooking the landing. There, framed by the iron guardrails, stood a young woman, a head shorter than Jeanne. Her brilliant blonde hair fell in a smooth cascade to her waist, her pale complexion porcelain-fine, and her eyes, a deep sapphire blue, seemed to glow softly in the amber light. To Jeanne, she looked almost like a bisque doll brought to life.
She wore a modest yet elegant lavender dress with a crisp white collar, an ascot fastened neatly at her throat with a sapphire ribbon. A matching lavender barrette rested in her hair. Its white ribbon folded into the shape of a rose. Black stockings and carefully polished shoes completed the picture.
She descended the stairs with quick, almost childlike steps, the heels of her shoes tapping lightly against the polished stone. A skip crept into her movement as she hurried toward Jeanne, reaching her in moments. Without hesitation, she took Jeanne's hands in her own, holding them warmly and causing Jeanne to flush.
"Mon Dieu," she said with a bright, delighted smile, studying her face. "You look just like him. Same cheeks, same nose." Her gaze lingered, thoughtful. "But your eyes…" She tilted her head, letting out a soft laugh. "Ah, those you must have inherited from your mother."
Ramsay stepped forward and bowed. "Allow me to introduce you," he said, gesturing toward her. "Lady Genavieve D'Arc, the current head of House D'Arc, and…" He paused, his eyes settling on Jeanne. "Your aunt."
"A-aunt?" Jeanne echoed, her eyes widening as she stammered. "B-but she's—"
Godric caught the faint simper that curved Genavieve's lips, her gaze sharpening with something knowingly playful. She stepped back, lifting the seams of her dress as she curtsied gracefully. "Oh, mon ami," she said lightly, "as they say, les apparences sont trompeuses. Appearances can be quite deceiving."
She tilted her head. "But yes, I am very much your aunt, and my foolish brother Jacques would certainly attest to that."
"Father?"
Jeanne froze, her eyes widening as her gaze snapped back to the portrait above the staircase, to the young boy standing at the man's side. In that instant, everything fell into place. Her breath caught. "All this time…"
Godric cleared his throat and stepped forward, inclining his head in a respectful bow. "Lady D'Arc, it's an honor. I'm—"
"Godric Gryffindor," Genavieve supplied smoothly, cutting in just enough to make him stiffen. "Or perhaps I should call you le Lion d'Ignis. Or would you prefer the Hero of Caerleon?"
Godric's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"Yes, mon ami, your reputation precedes you," Genavieve continued, her fingers resting thoughtfully against her chin. "You and your companions." Her gaze flicked briefly toward Jeanne before returning to him. "Even without the presence of my dear niece, you have forged a name that travels far and wide." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Though I must confess, you are somewhat shorter than I imagined."
Godric managed an awkward chuckle. "Yeah. I hear that a lot."
Genavieve's expression softened as she tilted her head. "Still, it has been a long and arduous journey," she said gently, her gaze shifting from Godric back to Jeanne. "For both of you."
She gestured lightly with one finger toward a nearby doorway. "Come along. I have brunch prepared, and I believe you will find Carcassonne's cuisine quite… délicieuse."
As she turned to lead the way, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at Jeanne. "And do not fret, mon petit oiseau," she added, a reassuring smile threading her words. "All will be revealed in time. I am quite certain you have more than a few questions waiting to be answered."
As she stepped forward, the doors to the dining room swung open with a deep, resonant creak, heavy oak yielding under the practiced hands of two butlers. One of them peeled away at once and approached Ramsay, presenting a cream-colored envelope. Its wax seal was a deep, vivid red, the shade of a freshly cut rose.
Ramsay studied it for only a moment before releasing a long, weary exhale, the kind that drew his shoulders down with its weight. He moved to Genavieve's side.
"My apologies, my lady," he said, prompting her to pause and turn. "It appears the Marquis de Gramont has once again requested your presence for a…" He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "A parlay, regarding your hand in marriage."
At the name, Godric stiffened. His eyes widened as a cold sensation slid down his spine, something Jeanne noticed immediately. His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening as his jaw set hard.
Genavieve let out a slow, exhausted sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mon Dieu," she muttered, "does the insolence of that blaireau know no bounds?" She shook her head sharply. "I have no interest in a man who profits off the backs of the enslaved."
"I take it you would like me to handle this as I have the others?" Ramsay asked, lifting the envelope slightly.
"Toss it into the fire with the rest," Genavieve replied with a dismissive wave. "Along with those obscene bouquets he keeps seeing fit to send."
She turned toward the dining room, her irritation bleeding into a muttered curse. "Honnêtement, if he were not a Marquis, I would have had him shot like a dog years ago." Her words dropped. "Fils de pute."
Jeanne stepped closer to Godric, her hand settling gently on his shoulder. At her touch, the tension drained from him, his clenched posture easing as his expression softened.
"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.
Godric turned toward her. "Y-yeah," he said, nodding, a small, reassuring smile forming. "I'm fine." He drew in a sharp breath, then let it out. "Anyway, I'm starving." He tipped his head toward the dining room doors and started after Genavieve. "Come on."
Jeanne lingered for a moment, concern still flickering in her eyes, before she followed after them.
****
The dining hall was no less grand than the rest of the manor, and as always, Godric found himself unable to look away. The sheer scale of the space was staggering, its opulence woven into every detail. Gilded ceilings arched high overhead, intricate carvings traced along polished marble, and elaborate frescoes stretched across the walls and vaults above.
Avalonian design was worked seamlessly into the grandeur. Elvish motifs bloomed through the floral décor, delicate and flowing. Orcish influence showed in the iron and steelwork, bold and uncompromising, while dwarven craftsmanship anchored the hall in stone, solid and enduring. Every element was gilded in gold and hand-carved to a level of precision that bordered on obsession.
Salazar, who had spent much of his life among the crème of nobility, had once remarked that a noble's home existed to proclaim absolute power and grandeur, much to his own irritation. Empty flourishes, he'd said, meant to stroke egos rather than reveal true character.
For Godric, the experience was overwhelming in a different way.
His uncle's cottage on the moors, pumpkins, cabbages, and all, would barely have filled half this hall, gardens included. The table alone was vast, stretching long enough to seat nearly sixty people from end to end. A pristine cloth draped across it, trimmed in gold, while an iron chandelier hung above, suspended from a ceiling painted like an open sky. Crystal sconces along the walls bathed the hall in a warm amber glow, lending the space a deceptive sense of comfort. At the table's center stood a tall arrangement of flowers in a sapphire vase, elegant and perfectly arranged.
Genavieve took her place near the head of the table, with Godric and Jeanne seated beside her on tall, ornate chairs that felt far too heavy to be merely functional. The walls were lined with portraits of men and women rendered in regal poise, faces unfamiliar, their gazes seeming to follow the living.
The air was thick with the scent of food. A rich spread lay before them, roasts and cold cuts, fresh bread and steaming soup, exotic meats and carefully prepared delicacies. A meal befitting nobility in every sense. Silverware tapped softly against decorated porcelain as they ate in near silence.
Once or twice, Jeanne glanced at Godric, the stillness pressing in on her, uncomfortable and heavy. Godric caught her look but only shifted his gaze away, uncertain of what to say, or even what he was meant to feel in a place like this.
A servant approached Genavieve's side, carrying a black glass bottle that shimmered like obsidian, swaddled carefully in a scarlet cloth. He tilted it with practiced precision, pouring a dark, rich red wine into the glass beside her plate. The liquid caught the light as it filled halfway, its scent sweet and potent as it drifted into the air.
He withdrew smoothly, then turned to Godric's glass, only to pause as the boy lifted a hand in quiet refusal. The servant glanced to Jeanne for confirmation. She shook her head. With a respectful bow, he stepped back into place.
"Well, I do hope the meal has been to your expectations," Genavieve said, lifting her glass. She swirled the wine, inhaled its aroma, then took a measured sip, her lips pursing as her expression turned contemplative. "Saúde Je Suis, the pride of Carcassonne," she mused. "Though I must admit, it lacks something compared to the previous vintage." She gestured lightly with the glass before sighing. "Unavoidable, I suppose, after the drought that year."
"The food is wonderful, Lady Genavieve," Jeanne replied warmly, dabbing her lips with her napkin.
Genavieve scoffed softly and waved a dismissive hand. "Please, mon ami, just Genavieve." A smile curved her lips. "There's no need for formality among family."
"Family…" Jeanne echoed, her gaze dropping to her plate, still marked with sauce and slivers of ham. "I'm still getting used to it." She lifted her eyes, taking in the vast hall once more. "To all of this."
Genavieve let out a slow sigh, her shoulders sinking as she set her glass gently back onto the table. "I suppose we've indulged enough," she said. "Which means I owe you a story." Her sapphire eyes shifted to Jeanne, softening even as they grew heavy. "Unfortunately, it is not a happy one."
Both Godric and Jeanne straightened instinctively, a thread of unease settling behind their attentive gazes.
"As I'm certain Ramsay has already explained," Genavieve began, "House D'Arc is one of the twelve Imperial Families of Avalon, our roots reaching back to before the Calamity, before the rise of the Dark Lord." Her tone cooled. "We were not always so reserved. My forebears were ruthless, cunning, and ambitious." A brief grin touched her lips as she glanced toward Godric. "Unsurprisingly, most of them were alumni of Excalibur, particularly House Ferrum."
Godric steepled his fingers, resting them quietly on his lap.
"In short," Genavieve continued, "my great-grandfather grew a conscience. He decided the world had enough villains among the nobility and chose to withdraw into the shadows instead." She folded her hands. "He poured his vast wealth into Carcassonne, ensuring its people would never want for anything. My grandfather followed that path. So did my father." She paused, reflective. "There is something noble in that, I suppose, though part of me has always found it… lacking."
"Lacking?" Jeanne asked, tilting her head.
Genavieve let out a soft, pained laugh. "Forgive me. Selfish is the more honest word, mon ami." Her gaze drifted. "By choosing isolation, they simply watched from a distance as the world burned around them. Carcassonne was spared the suffering that ravaged much of Avalon, yes, but in that safety, its people grew comfortable. Complicit."
She shook her head slowly. "I have watched my father turn away those who came to us seeking aid. Not out of cruelty, but because his concern ended at our borders."
"That's horrible," Godric said, a scowl forming. "My Uncle Gareth always said that if you have the power to help people, you have a moral obligation to do it."
Genavieve smiled at him, a hint of warmth returning. "Your uncle is a wise man, mon ami." Her expression sobered as she looked back to Jeanne. "But I digress. You did not come here to learn our family's history."
Her voice lowered.
"You came here to learn about your father."
Jeanne stiffened at the mention.
A pained smile touched Genavieve's lips. "Jacques, mon frère." She paused, the weight of memory settling in her eyes. "He was brave. Strong. He had a heart far larger than any of us, and far larger than this world deserved."
Godric lifted an eyebrow. "That's… a lot of praise for someone you called a fool earlier."
"Do not misunderstand me, Gryffindor," Genavieve snapped, though there was no real heat behind it. "He was a fool." She exhaled, her tone softening. "Just not in the way you might think. Like our father and grandfather, he inherited their will, their sense of responsibility. But unlike them, he could not accept their answer to suffering." Her fingers tightened briefly around the stem of her glass. "To hide. To isolate. To watch the world burn from a safe distance."
She glanced at Jeanne, a small, knowing smile returning. "I suppose that is something you inherited from him as well."
Jeanne smiled faintly, almost unconsciously.
"Because of that, Jacques and our father argued often, and not quietly," Genavieve continued. "Their disagreements had a way of becoming… explosive." She gave a small shrug. "It grew worse after our mother passed."
Both Godric and Jeanne lowered their gazes, the silence briefly heavy.
"He began spending more time away from home," Genavieve said, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip before continuing. "Travelling across Avalon. Helping where he could, however he could." Her eyes grew distant. "And once he had seen all Avalon had to offer, he turned his gaze beyond it. To other worlds." She paused. "And eventually, he was caught by the one thing that ensnares even the wisest of men."
Jeanne tilted her head as Godric sighed softly. "I've heard that phrase before," he muttered. "Salazar used it once. A woman."
"Oui, a woman," Genavieve confirmed with a soft, bittersweet chuckle. "He fell in love."
Her gaze shifted to Jeanne just as realization struck.
"Mother?" Jeanne whispered, her eyes widening.
Genavieve inclined her head slowly, her expression thoughtful. "I never had the privilege of meeting her, I am afraid. In truth, I would wager she knows nothing of Avalon, nor of us," she said gently. "But I knew my brother well, and Jacques would never have chosen a partner who did not share his convictions, his sense of what is right and just. As for why he kept it all secret…" She gave a faint, rueful smile. "I imagine those reasons were his alone."
Jeanne went still, the weight of it settling in her chest before she spoke. "My mother is… traditional. Deeply rooted in her beliefs." Her gaze flicked briefly toward Godric, then returned to Genavieve. "Where I come from, magic and witchcraft are considered heresy. People have suffered persecution over little more than an accusation, whether it was true or not. The idea of magic, of Avalon, of an entire world beyond our own… it would have frightened her."
"Ah," Genavieve exhaled softly, shaking her head. "By the Gods, she sounds very much like a Sanctist. Incorrigible in their dogma, those ones."
Jeanne lifted her hands at once, eyes wide. "No, no, please forgive me. I didn't mean it that way. I'm not trying to speak ill of my mother." She hesitated, then shrugged faintly. "You have to understand, she grew up in a time marked by war and famine. For many, faith is the only thing they have left to cling to. She may be pious, but she is kind. Gentle."
Genavieve's expression softened, her voice easing. "And I would never doubt that, ma chère." She nodded once. "But I digress. Jacques returned with one purpose, and one purpose alone: to seek our father's blessing for their union, or to take his leave should that blessing be denied." She drew in a slow, weighted breath. "As you can imagine, our father forbade it."
Her gaze lifted toward the stone above them, distant. "I still remember that day. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the shouting even now. So much rage. So much anger." Her voice lowered. "It was as though it burned itself into the very stones of this place."
Her eyes lowered again. "Father gave Jacques an ultimatum in the end. Leave your lover… or leave the family forever." She looked to Jeanne, her expression gentle but unyielding. "I need not tell you which he chose."
Jeanne's face fell into a solemn stillness.
"That was the last time I saw mon frère," Genavieve continued. "Before he left, he swore he would never return to Carcassonne. Nor to Avalon." Her lips tightened. "And despite everything, I know it tore him apart to do so. He loved us deeply. But he and my father…" She exhaled. "Both were cut from the same foolish cloth."
She lifted her glass and drained it in one steady motion. "The years passed. Eventually, our father died, and I ascended as head of House D'Arc."
Her gaze returned to Jeanne, softer now. "And for a very long time, I believed the D'Arc name would end with me." A faint smile touched her lips. "Until I learned of you."
"With you?" Godric asked, frowning. "I'm sorry, but… aren't you a little young to be thinking about that?"
Genavieve blinked, then laughed outright. "Oh, mon ami, you are going to make me blush." She shook her head. "Tell me, then. How old do you think I am?"
Godric cleared his throat, eyes widening. "I… thought you were younger than us."
She laughed again, bright and unoffended. "You sweet boy." Her tone softened. "As I told you before, les apparences sont trompeuses." She tilted her chin toward the hall behind them. "Do you remember the portrait outside?" A pause. "Who do you suppose was the baby in my mother's arms?"
Both Jeanne and Godric froze.
"You mean…" Jeanne whispered.
"Oui," Genavieve said, nodding. "And I trust you are clever enough to understand what that implies."
She extended her empty glass. At once, the servant stepped forward and refilled it. Genavieve took a small sip before continuing. "I have a… condition. No one knows whether it is biological or magical in nature." She shrugged lightly. "It has kept me eternally thirteen."
Her expression dimmed, just slightly. "Unfortunately, it has also left me barren."
At once, both Jeanne and Godric grew still, the weight of Genavieve's words settling heavily over them.
"Which means you, Jeanne, mon petit oiseau," Genavieve said softly, leaning in just enough to underscore the truth, "are the last living descendant of House D'Arc. The rightful heir to a lineage that has endured for over a thousand years." Her gaze held Jeanne's. "And when I, too, pass from this world, everything you see before you will be yours to claim."
Jeanne's breath hitched. A tremor ran through her as her shoulders drew tight, her gaze falling to the table. "Now I understand…" she murmured. "Now it makes sense. When Headmaster Blaise spoke of Excalibur. Of Avalon. Father was against it. Completely." Her voice wavered. "I thought it was our faith. But now I see he was trying to keep me from the truth." She swallowed. "W-why… why would he hide something like this from me? Avalon was one thing, but this?"
Genavieve drew breath to answer, but Godric spoke first.
"I can answer that, Jeanne."
She looked up at him.
"It's the same reason my Uncle Gareth raised me mundane," Godric said. "He thought I was just like him. That I didn't have magic." He inhaled slowly, then let it out. "At the time, he believed it would keep me safe. Away from a world I had no business knowing, let alone getting tangled up in." His expression softened. "Everything changed when my magic awakened. And I'm willing to bet it was always going to be the same for you."
Jeanne's eyes widened slightly before drifting down to her lap. She nodded, slowly.
"I would not blame your father, Jeanne," Genavieve said gently. "Avalon holds far too many painful memories for him." A faint smile touched her lips. "But knowing Jacques, he also knew he could not keep this from you forever."
She took a measured sip from her glass before setting it down. "Now that you know the truth, mon petit oiseau," Genavieve said gently, "you are faced with a choice."
She placed the glass aside and rolled up the sleeve of her right arm.
Godric and Jeanne leaned closer as Genavieve rested her forearm upon the table. Just beneath her wrist lay a tattoo that caught the light in shifting hues, its surface gleaming with a prismatic sheen. At its center was the crest of House D'Arc, encircled by runes that neither of them could read, their shapes unfamiliar and old.
"This is a Signum," Genavieve explained. "A mark bestowed upon members of the noble houses. Only those with the means and standing can afford one of their own." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "It records one's name and the circumstances of their birth. Without it, no one may claim, nor be recognized as, a member of a noble house."
She closed her eyes, a faint tension tightening her features, as though a familiar weight had settled in her chest. "In fact, my father stripped Jacques of his Signum the day he left Château D'Arc."
Her gaze lifted to Jeanne. "So here it is. You may take your rightful place as the heir to House D'Arc." Then she turned her head slightly toward the doorway. "Or you may choose, as your father did before you, to turn your back and leave."
Genavieve's eyes returned to Jeanne, steady and sincere. "Whatever you decide, I will not blame you, pursue you, nor attempt to persuade you otherwise."
Once the choice was spoken aloud, it lingered in the air, heavy and unmoving, settling squarely on Jeanne's shoulders. Her gaze dropped to her hands resting in her lap, fingers pressing lightly into the seams of her skirt. She could feel the dampness gathering in her palms, the hall itself seeming to grow colder, the chill prickling along the back of her neck as her thoughts churned inward, tightening into a quiet maelstrom. Across from her, Godric watched in silence, concern etched plainly into his eyes.
Genavieve drew in a steady breath and rose to her feet. At once, servants stepped forward, one easing her chair back, another lifting the napkin from her lap with practiced care. She smoothed her dress, composure settling over her once more.
"As I said, it has been a long and arduous journey," she said evenly. "It would be unkind to send you both away in haste. Please, stay. Rest. I am certain you have much to think about, mon ami."She glanced toward Godric, a faint simper touching her lips. "And perhaps even more to discuss."
Her gaze softened, the sharp edge easing just enough to let warmth through. "If I may be so bold," Genevieve said, "perhaps you might consider spending a day… or three in Carcassonne." She offered a small, knowing smile. "You have travelled a very long way, after all. It would be such a shame to return without indulging in everything we have to offer."
Her eyes glinted with quiet amusement. "Who knows?" she added lightly. "It may even surprise you."
"When you have your answer, you may come find me. Ramsay will see to any requests you might have." With a graceful curtsy, she added, "Until then… mon adieu."
Jeanne's gaze drifted to the empty plate before her, amethyst eyes lingering on the faint streaks of gravy left behind by torn bread and the last remnants of meat. She stared a moment too long, lost somewhere in thought. Godric noticed, the subtle stillness of her, the way her attention slipped inward, but he said nothing, letting the silence sit where words would only intrude
Genevieve turned and headed for the doors. "Ramsay," she called over her shoulder, "prépare the car. I intend to pay a visit to the Marquis." A dismissive flick of her hand followed. "And bring me my rifle. See that it is oiled, loaded, and parfaitement prepared."
She paused just long enough to glance back, a cool smile threading her tone. "The weather is most suitable for a hunt, and I find myself very much in the mood for pig." A beat. "The long kind."
"At once, my lady," Ramsay replied, bowing as he followed her from the hall.
When the doors finally closed, the dining room fell into a profound silence, leaving Jeanne and Godric alone with their thoughts. After a moment, Jeanne lifted her gaze to the servant still cradling the wine bottle in its cloth. He looked up at once, attentive.
"If it's all the same to you," Jeanne said quietly, her expression troubled, "I would very much like a glass right now."
Godric let out a sharp breath. "Yeah," he muttered. "Me too."