Émile wasted no time. His hands moved swiftly, pulling back the man's shirt to expose the dark petals spreading across his chest. The roses had bloomed in the same eerie, delicate pattern as the previous victims. But this time, there was something different—something more aggressive. The petals appeared to pulse, as if alive, as if feeding on the very life that remained in the man.
"We're too late," Liliane whispered, her voice laced with frustration. "The curse has taken hold."
"No," Émile replied, his voice steady, yet cold. "He's still breathing. There's time."
The man groaned, his body convulsing slightly as his pale fingers curled around the arm of the chair. His lips moved, forming words, though barely audible. Émile leaned closer, straining to hear the dying man's whispers.
"The...the rose..." the man gasped, his eyes fluttering open. His pupils were dilated, his skin beaded with sweat, yet there was a strange calmness to his voice as he spoke. "It...it calls to me."
Liliane's face grew grim. "The rose is anchoring him to this world. If we don't sever the connection, he'll be lost just like the others."
Émile cursed under his breath. The petals were not just a mark of death—they were the gateway. Whoever had cursed these people knew exactly how to manipulate life and death, using the Ebony Rose as a conduit. There had to be a way to break the bond before it consumed the man completely.
"Liliane," Émile muttered, still observing the blackened blooms, "we need to draw it out."
Liliane hesitated for a brief moment, her gaze drifting between Émile and the man who lay between life and death. "You think it's that simple? The curse won't be undone by force. If we pull too hard—"
"I know the risks," Émile interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. "But if we don't act now, he's already lost."
Liliane bit her lip, her mind racing as she weighed the options. Time was running out, and the man's breathing grew more shallow with each passing moment. She knelt beside Émile, her gloved hand brushing against the cursed petals. For a brief second, they flared with a deep, unnatural heat, but she didn't pull back.
"Fine," she murmured, closing her eyes in concentration. "But you'll need to handle the physical part. I'll guide the flow."
Émile nodded, positioning himself closer to the man. He drew a small, jagged dagger from his coat—a tool designed specifically for matters involving dark magic. The silver blade gleamed faintly in the candlelight, etched with runes that glowed with a faint, ethereal light. It wasn't a weapon to kill but to sever, to divide the metaphysical from the physical.
The man moaned softly, his hand twitching as if sensing the danger, but he was too weak to resist. Émile pressed the flat of the dagger against the largest rose on the man's chest. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a faint hiss, like air escaping a sealed chamber, filled the room.
Liliane's voice came out in a soft chant, her fingers now resting directly on the man's heart. Her eyes were closed, her focus solely on the delicate threads of the curse woven into the petals.
As Émile applied more pressure, the roses seemed to writhe, as though they could sense their impending removal. The black blooms began to blacken further, their edges curling like burnt paper, and a faint pulse—almost like a heartbeat—throbbed beneath Émile's hands.
"Keep steady," Liliane whispered, her voice strained. "It's resisting."
Émile gritted his teeth and pressed harder. The dagger's runes glowed brighter, cutting through the metaphysical tendrils that bound the curse to the man's flesh. The roses began to disintegrate into ash, curling and crumbling with each pulse of the blade.
Suddenly, the man gasped, his back arching off the chair as a wave of energy coursed through him. His eyes flew open, wide and filled with fear. "It's...it's not done!" he screamed, his voice echoing through the room.
Liliane's eyes snapped open as well, her chant faltering. "Émile, stop! Something's wrong—"
Before she could finish, the petals that had begun to dissolve suddenly flared back to life, blooming faster, spreading like wildfire across the man's chest. The roses pulsed violently, almost as if they were fighting back against the severing spell. The man's breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, and his body convulsed uncontrollably.
Émile swore under his breath, withdrawing the dagger. "What the hell—"
A sharp cry escaped the man's lips, his eyes rolling back into his head. His entire body shuddered, and then—
Silence.
The roses stopped moving. Their once vibrant black petals turned brittle and lifeless. For a moment, it seemed like the worst had passed. But then, with a soft crackling sound, the petals began to fall away—one by one—until all that remained were crumbled ashes scattered across the man's lifeless body.
Liliane let out a shaky breath, her hands falling to her sides. "We were too late."
Émile clenched his jaw, staring down at the corpse. Another life claimed by the Ebony Rose. Another failure.
"He was speaking of something..." Émile murmured, recalling the man's final words. "What did he mean by 'it's not done'?"
Liliane frowned, standing up slowly, brushing the ash from her hands. "I'm not sure. But whatever it was, it means there's more to this than just the curse itself. Something... something else is lurking beneath it."
Émile stood as well, slipping the dagger back into his coat. His eyes scanned the room, searching for anything they might have missed. There was nothing—no sign of struggle, no clue left behind. Just the ashes of the roses and the still body in the armchair.
The Ebony Rose had claimed another victim, and now, its trail had grown colder.
But Émile wasn't ready to give up.
He glanced at Liliane. "We need to find the source. If we keep following the petals, we'll find whoever's behind this."
Liliane nodded, her expression resolute. "Agreed. But we need to be prepared for whatever lies ahead. This isn't just a simple curse anymore."
As they made their way back toward the door, the woman who had brought them here stood in the doorway, her face pale with horror. She didn't speak—she didn't need to. The look on her face said everything.
Her brother was gone.
Émile stopped in front of her, his voice low and firm. "We'll find who did this. I swear it."
The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face, but she said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
As they stepped out into the cold, fog-drenched night once more, Émile's mind was already turning. They were getting closer. Whoever was behind the murders—the one pulling the strings of the Ebony Rose—they would make a mistake. And when they did, Émile would be ready.
But for now, the only sound that accompanied them through the streets was the soft, echoing whisper of petals.