Paris still slept, unaware of what was rising beneath its foundations.
Claire and Solène hadn't spoken a word since the bridge. The shadow-carriage — an old enchanted Peugeot made to vanish down alleyways — glided through the empty streets in silence, save for the distant wail of sirens and the rustle of something that shouldn't have been there.
In the back seat, Solène opened Camille's grimoire with trembling hands. The pages were stained with soot, some torn in haste. But one of them, folded four times, seemed to have been carefully hidden.
— "A Crimson Veil invocation..." she murmured. "Camille was trying to hide someone. Or something."
Claire didn't respond. Her eyes were locked on the rearview mirror.
The same silhouette. Again.
Someone was following them.
— "We've got company," she said, coldly.
Solène snapped the grimoire shut.
— "How many?"
— "One. But he's not ordinary."
In the next instant, the car skidded on its own, tires sliding as if the asphalt had turned to glass. Claire yanked the brake hard and stepped out, short blade already in hand. Solène conjured light in her palms, the white glow pulsing against the fog.
And then—silence.
Nothing.
The silhouette had vanished — but something had been left on the ground, among damp newspaper sheets: a single black rose, tied with a red velvet ribbon.
Solène stepped closer, hesitantly. A note was wrapped around the stem.
"She lied. The key didn't die with Camille."
Claire felt her stomach drop.
— "They're playing us. This is just the beginning."
From the top of an open window, a bell rang out five slow chimes.
Time was running. And Paris did not forgive the late.