The woman's voice trembled as she spoke, her eyes darting from Émile to Liliane, and back to the eerie, fog-drenched street behind her. The damp night clung to her velvet gown, as if the darkness itself had followed her to the threshold of the D'Ambroise manor.
"Please," she whispered, clutching the letter to her chest as though it were the last fragile thread holding her together. "You must help me. The roses... They've come for my family."
Émile stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. The dark velvet of her gown and the delicate embroidery along the edges suggested wealth, but there was something more—an air of nobility, or rather, what was left of it. Her face was drawn and pale, the unmistakable look of someone who had recently witnessed horror.
"Your family?" Émile's voice was low but firm. He didn't move from the doorway, his hand still resting on the hilt of his dagger. "What happened?"
The woman's breath came in short, ragged bursts as if she'd been running for hours. Her fingers shook as she unfolded the letter she had been clutching, revealing the black ink scrawled in desperate handwriting.
"It started two nights ago," she began, her voice wavering. "My father, Lord Bellerose... he found a rose, a black rose, on his pillow. I—I didn't think much of it at first. But then... then, the next morning, he was gone. His bed was empty, but the sheets... they were covered in petals."
Liliane exchanged a glance with Émile, her brow furrowed in concern. "And now you've found another rose?" Liliane asked softly, stepping closer to the woman.
The woman nodded frantically, her eyes wide with fear. "Yes, just tonight. My brother found it in the drawing room—on the armchair where Father used to sit. I fear... I fear he'll be next."
Émile's expression darkened, his mind racing through the possibilities. The petals... they always appeared before death, as if marking the victims. And now, it seemed, the Ebony Rose had chosen another family to haunt.
"Let me see the letter," Émile said, his tone softening as he extended his hand.
The woman hesitated for a moment, but then, with trembling fingers, she handed the letter to him. Émile unfolded it carefully and began to read, his eyes scanning the hurried script:
To whomever finds this,
I write these words with great haste, for I fear my time is running short. The Ebony Rose has cursed our family. It began with my father, and now, I am certain it will claim us all. I beg of you, if you can read this—save us. Find the one responsible before it is too late.
—Alaric Bellerose
Émile lowered the letter, his thoughts swirling. Another family, another victim of the cursed artifact. The pattern was becoming clearer, but it wasn't enough. They still didn't know who was behind the murders, or how they were connected to the D'Ambroises and the ancient alchemy.
Liliane crossed her arms, her gaze sharpening as she studied the woman. "You said your father vanished without a trace? No body, no sign of a struggle?"
The woman nodded slowly, tears welling in her eyes. "It's as if he simply... disappeared. All that was left were the petals, black and lifeless."
Émile's jaw tightened. "Where is your brother now?"
"At our estate," the woman replied, her voice breaking. "I told him not to touch the rose, but he wouldn't listen. He said it was just a flower... but I know better. He's in danger, I'm sure of it."
Liliane glanced toward Émile, her expression grave. "We need to go there. If her brother found the rose, he may be the next target. We can't wait for the second petal to fall."
Émile nodded in agreement. "We'll leave immediately."
The woman exhaled in relief, her shoulders slumping slightly as she stepped aside to allow them to pass. "Thank you... thank you. Please, hurry."
Émile and Liliane didn't waste another moment. They stepped out into the cold night, the fog curling around their feet as they made their way through the iron gates of the manor. The air was thick with tension, every whisper of wind and distant rustle in the darkness feeling like a threat waiting to strike.
As they hurried through the gaslit streets, Émile's mind churned with questions. The Bellerose family was now involved—another victim of the Ebony Rose's curse. But why them? Was this just another part of a larger pattern? Or was there something specific about these families that made them targets?
Liliane's voice broke through his thoughts. "Émile, do you think... do you think there's someone orchestrating this from the shadows? Someone using the Ebony Rose to achieve some kind of twisted goal?"
Émile glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "It's possible. But if that's the case, we need to find out who—and fast."
The streets of Noirvelle seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of them, the tall, gothic spires looming like dark sentinels watching their every move. As they neared the Bellerose estate, Émile could feel the weight of the curse pressing down on him, like a shadow lurking just out of sight.
The estate itself was grand, though clearly worn by time. Its once-vibrant façade had faded, its windows dark and foreboding. The fog clung to the gates, twisting through the iron bars like tendrils of smoke.
"We're here," Émile said quietly, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. He reached for the iron handle of the gate, pushing it open with a creak.
The courtyard beyond was eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. They approached the main door, and Émile raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door creaked open of its own accord.
Inside, the house was dimly lit by flickering candlelight. Shadows danced along the walls, and the scent of dust and decay hung in the air. The woman who had led them here hesitated at the threshold, her face pale.
"Please," she whispered. "Find my brother before it's too late."
Émile nodded, his hand on the hilt of his dagger as he stepped into the entryway. Liliane followed close behind, her eyes scanning the darkened hall for any sign of movement.
The silence in the house was suffocating, thick with anticipation. Émile moved carefully, his steps measured, as they made their way deeper into the mansion. Every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet seemed to echo, as though the house itself was alive, watching their every move.
Then, suddenly, from the shadows of the drawing room, a voice broke the silence—a low, pained groan.
Émile and Liliane exchanged a glance before rushing toward the sound.
There, slumped in the armchair by the fireplace, was a man—a young man, his face pale and drenched in sweat. He clutched his chest, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps.
But it was the roses that drew their attention. Black petals bloomed across his chest, just like the others—velvet and glistening, like death come to life.
Liliane gasped. "It's already started."
Émile knelt beside the man, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We need to act quickly. He's not gone yet, but the curse is spreading."
The man's eyes fluttered open, his voice barely a whisper. "The... the petals... they're calling..."
Émile's heart raced. Time was running out.