The following day, Noirvelle's skies were overcast, and the city felt tense, as if holding its breath. Émile navigated the streets swiftly, his coat billowing behind him, blending with the gaslit fog that curled along the ground. The petal weighed heavily in his pocket, a constant reminder of what they were up against.
His destination: the D'Ambroise manor.
Liliane had insisted on coming with him, and now she walked by his side, her eyes scanning the towering buildings and winding alleys with a quiet intensity. She carried the book they had studied last night, the record of the family's dark experiment. There were too many unanswered questions, and Émile knew the manor might hold the key to unlocking them.
"You've been quiet," Liliane remarked, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"I'm thinking," Émile muttered, his mind elsewhere. The D'Ambroise family had vanished over fifty years ago, but their legacy—one of greed, twisted magic, and forbidden knowledge—still haunted the city. "Something about this doesn't add up."
Liliane tilted her head, her silver hair catching the dim light of a streetlamp. "Go on."
"The murders," Émile continued. "If it's connected to the Ebony Rose, why now? Why would someone start using it after all these years?"
Liliane's gaze darkened. "Power. Desperation. There could be any number of reasons. But I suspect whoever is responsible found something the D'Ambroises left behind. A piece of the puzzle they hadn't finished."
Émile nodded, but his mind was already jumping ahead. The D'Ambroise family had been known for their obsession with alchemy, but if the curse was truly alive again, then whoever held the Ebony Rose was no ordinary player. They had power—and they knew how to use it.
The manor appeared ahead, a hulking shadow against the dull sky. It stood abandoned at the edge of Noirvelle, its gates rusted, the gardens overgrown with weeds and thorny vines. Once, the place had been magnificent. Now, it was a ghost of its former glory, a crumbling reminder of a family that had reached too far.
As they approached, Émile felt the familiar prickle of unease along his spine. The place wasn't just forgotten—it was steeped in something darker, something that still lingered in the air like a thick fog. He glanced at Liliane, who gave a silent nod. She felt it too.
They passed through the gates, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path that led to the grand doors. Émile paused, his hand resting on the iron handle. The moment he touched it, he felt a chill, like fingers brushing the back of his neck.
"Ready?" Liliane's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
Émile pushed the door open, the creak echoing through the empty halls. Dust motes floated in the pale light that filtered through the broken windows. The air was thick with the smell of old wood and forgotten time. The manor was eerily quiet, but the sensation that they were being watched grew stronger with every step they took.
The entrance hall was vast, with a grand staircase spiraling up to the second floor. Émile's eyes scanned the room, noting the faded portraits lining the walls, the heavy velvet curtains that had long since lost their color. It was clear the place hadn't been touched in decades.
"The D'Ambroise family lived here until the very end," Liliane said softly, her voice barely a whisper in the heavy silence. "This is where they conducted their last experiment."
Émile moved toward the staircase, his boots echoing against the marble floor. "We should search the study. That's where they would've kept their research."
Liliane nodded, following him up the stairs. The atmosphere seemed to grow colder the higher they went, as if the walls themselves were closing in on them. Émile kept one hand near his dagger, ready for anything. The Ebony Rose wasn't just a curse—it was a weapon. And they had no idea who else might be after it.
When they reached the second floor, they turned down a long hallway, the air thick with dust. At the far end was the study, its door slightly ajar.
Émile pushed it open, revealing a room lined with bookshelves and cluttered with alchemical instruments. Old vials, decayed scrolls, and shattered glass littered the large desk in the center of the room. The air was heavy with the scent of stale herbs and something acrid. The remnants of failed experiments, Émile guessed.
"This place..." Liliane breathed, stepping into the room. "It's a tomb of lost knowledge."
Émile nodded, moving toward the desk. There had to be something here—something that could give them a clue about the murders. He rifled through the old papers, his fingers brushing against brittle parchment and faded ink.
Liliane, meanwhile, wandered toward a shelf at the back of the room, her eyes narrowing as she spotted something tucked between the dusty tomes. She reached out, pulling free a small, leather-bound journal.
"Émile," she called softly, opening the book. "Look at this."
He walked over, glancing at the journal in her hands. The handwriting was scrawled, uneven, as if written in haste. He recognized the name immediately—the last head of the D'Ambroise family, Lucien.
Liliane flipped to the final pages, where the ink was smeared and frantic. "It's his personal account. His thoughts leading up to the family's fall."
Émile's eyes scanned the pages, his heart skipping a beat as he read the final words aloud: "We were fools. The Rose... it wasn't ours to control. I can hear them. Whispering. Calling. The petals are falling... and the price will be paid."
A sudden chill swept through the room. The wind outside howled louder, rattling the windows.
Before either of them could speak, the soft sound of footsteps echoed from the hall behind them.