The soft, almost imperceptible footsteps grew louder, reverberating through the quiet of the decaying manor. Émile's hand instinctively went to the silver charm hidden beneath his cravat, while his other hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger. Liliane, still clutching the journal, moved closer to Émile, her eyes narrowing in the direction of the sound.
For a tense moment, silence returned, broken only by the faint creaking of the old house. Then, from the shadows of the hallway, a voice—a whisper, laced with malice—slipped through the door.
"Reading the past won't save you from what's to come."
Émile's eyes flicked toward the entrance of the study. A figure stood in the doorway, draped in black, their features obscured by a wide-brimmed hat and a long, flowing cloak that seemed to swallow the light around them. They were tall, slender, and carried themselves with an eerie grace, as if they belonged to the shadows.
Liliane's grip on the journal tightened, her voice steady despite the chill in the air. "Who are you?"
The figure didn't answer immediately, their gaze shifting from Liliane to Émile, lingering on him as if assessing a threat. The tension thickened, the air in the room growing colder.
"You meddle in things beyond your understanding, Émile D'Arquen," the figure said, their voice low and smooth. "The Ebony Rose is not something you can control. It will devour you—just as it has those before you."
Émile stepped forward, his posture firm, despite the unease creeping into his bones. "I don't need to control it. I just need to find it—and stop whoever's using it to kill."
The figure's lips curled into a smile beneath the brim of the hat, a smile that didn't reach their eyes. "You think this is about simple murder? The petals have already begun to fall, and the game is in motion. You're too late."
Liliane, never one to back down from a challenge, spoke with an edge of defiance. "If you know something, then speak plainly. Who are you working for? What do they want with the Ebony Rose?"
The figure's gaze flickered, something unreadable passing behind their eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if they might answer, but then, without warning, they stepped backward, blending into the shadows of the hallway.
"You'll see soon enough," the voice echoed, fading as the figure vanished from sight. "When the second petal falls."
Silence fell over the study once again, but it was far from peaceful. The weight of the stranger's words lingered, filling the space with an ominous foreboding. Liliane let out a slow breath, her fingers releasing their grip on the journal.
"We're not alone in this," she muttered, her brow furrowing. "Whoever that was, they're connected to the killings—and they know more about the Rose than they're letting on."
Émile moved to the doorway, his eyes scanning the darkened corridor where the figure had disappeared. The old house creaked in response, but there was no sign of the intruder. He closed the door softly and turned back to Liliane, his jaw clenched.
"The second petal," Émile murmured. "It means there's another body coming."
Liliane nodded grimly, her eyes still on the journal. "And if the pattern holds, it will be soon."
"We need to get ahead of this," Émile said, pacing across the room. "There has to be something in this house—something that tells us how the D'Ambroise family used the Ebony Rose. We need to understand its curse before we can stop it."
Liliane moved to the desk, placing the journal down carefully before sifting through the scattered notes and alchemical equipment. "They were alchemists," she said softly. "Masters of manipulation, of turning life into something... unnatural."
Her fingers brushed against a stack of old letters, tied together with a fraying ribbon. She pulled them free, her eyes scanning the faded ink. "These look like correspondences between the family and... someone else. Another scholar of the arcane, by the name of Aurelien Alaric."
Émile raised an eyebrow. "I've heard that name before. Alaric was a rogue alchemist, someone who was cast out from the guild for practicing forbidden arts. He vanished from Noirvelle years ago."
Liliane nodded, flipping through the letters quickly. "It looks like he was working with the D'Ambroises—at least until things went wrong. Listen to this." She cleared her throat and read aloud from one of the final letters:
Lucien,
The Rose is growing unstable. We must stop now, before it consumes more than we intended. You don't understand the forces we are dealing with. I won't be a part of this any longer. If you continue, you're on your own.
—Aurelien
Émile's expression darkened. "So even Alaric tried to stop them."
Liliane placed the letter down, her eyes meeting Émile's. "Whatever the D'Ambroise family was trying to achieve, they were playing with powers far beyond their control. And now, someone else has picked up where they left off."
Émile's hand unconsciously moved to the petal in his pocket, the weight of it growing heavier with each passing moment. They were running out of time. Whoever was using the Ebony Rose was getting bolder, more brazen—and the next murder could happen at any moment.
Before they could discuss their next move, the distant sound of a bell rang through the manor. Émile and Liliane froze, exchanging a tense glance. It was coming from the front door.
"Who in the world would come here?" Liliane whispered, her voice barely audible.
Émile's hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger. "Let's find out."
Without another word, they moved toward the entrance hall, their footsteps silent on the dusty floors. The bell rang again, louder this time, echoing through the empty halls. When they reached the grand doors, Émile paused, his hand hovering over the handle.
Liliane stood beside him, her body tense, ready for whatever was waiting on the other side.
Émile opened the door slowly, revealing the fog-shrouded street beyond.
And standing there, bathed in the dim light of the gaslamps, was a woman. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She wore a gown of dark velvet, and her trembling hands clutched a letter.
"It's happening again," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "The roses... they're falling."