Ezra's back slammed against the desk, knocking over an inkwell. The dark liquid spread across the wood like a creeping stain as the pressure around his throat tightened.
The grip was cold. Not the chill of a winter night, but something deeper, more unnatural—like flesh that had forgotten warmth.
Ezra's hand shot to his coat pocket, fingers closing around the handle of his pocketknife. He drove it forward.
The blade met nothing.
The weight against him vanished as if it had never been there. Ezra stumbled forward, coughing, heart hammering against his ribs. His hand shot to his throat—no bruises, no lingering sensation.
Was someone here?
The room was empty.
But he had felt it. Heard the whisper.
The study's door still hung open, revealing the hallway beyond. Shadows flickered against the wallpaper, cast by the dim light of the gas lamps outside.
Ezra inhaled deeply, forcing his mind into order. Get out. Take the book. Regroup.
He grabbed The Hidden Laws, wrapped it tightly in his coat, and made his way back to the front door, moving quickly but carefully. The house remained deathly silent, yet the air felt heavier, pressing against his skin.
As he reached the entrance, a faint sound reached his ears—
A slow, deliberate creak from upstairs.
Ezra froze. Someone—or something—was there.
He didn't wait to find out what. He shoved the door open and stepped onto the street, the cold night air rushing against his face like a slap.
The house stood behind him, dark and still. But as he looked back, he swore—just for a moment—he saw movement in the upstairs window.
Something watching.
Something smiling.
The Next Morning – Eldenwald Police Archives
Ezra needed information. If someone had broken into Crowne's home before him, they were likely after the same thing: the book. But why? And who?
The Eldenwald Police Archives sat within the Ministry District, a massive stone building filled with records dating back decades. Bureaucracy ruled here—rows of clerks, dusty shelves, the persistent scent of ink and old parchment.
Ezra pushed through the entrance, adjusting his coat. The clerk at the front desk barely looked up.
"I need to see the files on Dr. Alistair Crowne," Ezra said, keeping his tone casual.
The clerk frowned, flipping through a ledger. "Dr. Crowne? Scholar from the University, went missing two weeks ago?"
"That's the one."
The clerk ran his finger down the page, then paused. His frown deepened.
"That's odd," he muttered.
Ezra leaned in slightly. "What is?"
"There's no file."
Ezra blinked. "What?"
The clerk turned the ledger around, tapping an empty space where a record should have been.
"Missing persons cases are always logged. But there's no entry for Dr. Crowne. As if the case never existed."
Ezra felt the familiar cold unease creeping up his spine. He had read the newspapers. He had seen the small reports of Crowne's disappearance. He knew the case existed.
And yet, all traces of it had been erased.
Carefully, Ezra kept his voice steady. "Could it have been misplaced?"
The clerk shook his head. "Doubtful. But if you want, you can check the case records yourself." He gestured toward the back room.
Ezra nodded and made his way past the desks, entering the vast chamber where case files were kept.
He moved quickly, fingers tracing the labeled drawers. C. Crowe. Crowley. Crowne.
He found the slot where Crowne's file should have been.
It was empty.
Ezra stared at the vacant space. Someone had removed it—deliberately.
A chill swept through him. Someone was covering their tracks. Someone with power.
The police never lost files. They never erased records. Unless they were ordered to.
Ezra exhaled slowly.
Whoever had been in Crowne's house last night…
They weren't finished.