June 20th, 1881
The dawn broke over Maraheim with a somber light, the sun's rays struggling to pierce the heavy fog that blanketed the town. The influenza epidemic had left the streets eerily quiet, a stillness that now seemed to be mourning the latest loss. Detective Thomas stood outside Emma’s apartment, his heart heavy with a mixture of disbelief and guilt.
Constables were already on the scene, their breath visible in the cold morning air. The narrow street was cordoned off, the flickering gas lamps casting long shadows on the cobblestones. The townspeople, their faces pale and drawn from sickness and fear, watched from a distance, whispers of yet another murder passing among them.
Thomas entered the apartment, the chill in the air biting through his coat. The room felt unnaturally cold, and a sense of dread hung heavily. Emma's body lay in the center of the living room, her face a mask of terror. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide open and vacant, frozen in the final moments of her struggle.
Thomas knelt beside her, his breath catching in his throat. The reality of her death hit him like a physical blow. He had lost a colleague, a friend, and his mind raced with the last conversation they had. He had laughed at her theories, dismissing them as the ramblings of a mind pushed to the brink by the horrors they were facing.
The constables moved quietly around the room, collecting evidence. The symbols etched into the wooden floor caught Thomas’s eye. He remembered Emma’s notes about these markings, protective sigils she believed were connected to the Banished Prince. Now, looking at them, he felt a pang of regret for not taking her more seriously.
Thomas stood, his eyes scanning the room. The scene was meticulously preserved, the same eerie absence of struggle that had marked the other murders. The air was thick with a sense of malevolence, as if the very essence of the Banished Prince still lingered. He moved to Emma’s desk, where her notes and maps were spread out. The candle she had lit had long since burned out, leaving a pool of hardened wax. He picked up one of her notebooks, flipping through the pages filled with her meticulous handwriting. She had been so close to uncovering the truth, and he had failed to support her.
Survivor's guilt gnawed at him. Thomas’s thoughts drifted to their last conversation. Emma had been so determined, so convinced of the supernatural nature of the murders. He had brushed her off, laughed even. And now she was gone, her life taken by the very thing she had tried to warn him about.
Thomas's hand shook as he closed the notebook. He felt a deep sorrow and a burning anger at himself. If he had listened, if he had believed her, maybe things would have been different. Maybe Emma would still be alive.
The coroner arrived, a somber man with a grim expression. He examined Emma’s body, shaking his head slowly. "Another one, just like the others," he muttered. "No signs of struggle, no apparent cause of death. It's as if her life was simply... drained away."
Thomas nodded, the words echoing his own thoughts. "She was onto something," he said quietly. "Something ancient, something evil. I didn’t believe her."
The coroner looked at him with a mix of sympathy and concern. "Sometimes, we don't see the truth until it's too late. What will you do now?"
Thomas stared at Emma's lifeless form, a sense of resolve hardening within him. "I owe it to her to find out what really happened. To stop whatever did this."
As he left the apartment, Thomas felt the weight of the town’s suffering on his shoulders. The fog had lifted slightly, but the atmosphere remained heavy with loss. He walked through the silent streets, his mind replaying Emma’s words, her warnings.
The shadows seemed to whisper around him, the darkness not quite relinquished by the morning light. Thomas knew he had no clear path, no solid evidence to guide him. He was left with fragments of Emma's research and a growing sense of despair. He had dismissed the legend before, and now it had cost him dearly.
As the first rays of sunlight finally broke through the fog, Thomas felt no flicker of hope, only the crushing weight of uncertainty and guilt. The journey ahead was shrouded in darkness, and he had no idea where to begin, except, maybe, the library.
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