Chapter One: Cinders in Her Mouth

  The fog was thick enough to taste—like ash licked from forgotten fireplaces.

  Detective Seraphine Vale stood at the edge of the cliffs, boots pressed into wet earth. The wind howled low, like it remembered screams. Below her, the town was still asleep, wrapped in its usual lies. But out here? Out here the truth burned.

  They found the body just before dawn. Curled in the center of a scorched circle, naked except for a white lace veil. Her hair—what hadn’t been singed—was fanned around her like black flames. The fire hadn’t touched the grass beyond the circle, hadn’t even singed the roots. It was deliberate. Surgical. Reverent.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  In her mouth were roses. Real ones. Red, fresh, still dewy. Petals tucked deep into her throat as if she’d been made to swallow a bouquet in bloom.

  Seraphine didn’t speak for a long time. Just stared at the strange shape of the burn—like an eye or a tear or maybe a sun. She’d seen this before.

  Twelve years ago.

  Another body.

  Another fire.

  Another mouth full of roses.

  Back then, the town called it an accident. A house fire.

  Back then, she was the only one who didn’t believe them.

  Now the past had come roaring back in embers and blood.

  And this time, it was watching.