The mist came from the river like a living thing, dragging itself through the cobblestone streets and climbing the steps of the Royal Archives with the patience of something that knew every secret the city had ever tried to bury.

Elias Viremont stood before the iron gate, his dark coat damp and clinging to his body, and looked up at the tall, narrow windows. Gothic. Lit from within by a dim yellow glow that seemed to pulse—like breathing.

He had never liked this place.

No one did.

The Archives did not merely preserve records. They preserved versions of the truth the kingdom preferred to forget.

The guard at the entrance inspected the royal seal on the summons letter, then lifted his eyes to Elias with a look that lingered somewhere between suspicion… and pity.

Without a word, he pushed the heavy door open.

The corridor beyond smelled of old paper, candle wax—and something else.

Something metallic.

Almost organic.

As if the building itself were rotting from within.

Elias stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a final, echoing sound.

He knew the way.

He had spent years navigating these corridors, deciphering records others deemed unreadable, reconstructing narratives the Crown preferred to keep fractured.

But this time was different.

The summons had arrived three days earlier, sealed by the Council of Security itself.

And at the center of the document was a name no one spoke aloud anymore—

Prince Alaric.

Heir to the crown.

Dead for six months.

A hunting accident in the forests of Grenmoor.

Case closed.

Tragedy mourned.

State funeral.

Official silence.

And yet—

Someone wanted the case reopened.

Not publicly. Never publicly.

Just a quiet review of the records.

A verification.

A reassurance that the official narrative remained… intact.

Elias knew what that meant.

Someone had doubts.

And when the Crown had doubts—

The Archives bled.

He climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor, where restricted documents were kept.

The room was vast, lined with shelves stretching to the ceiling. At its center stood a long table of dark oak, lit by three silver candelabras.

An old archivist sat in the corner, eyes closed, hands folded over his lap.

Sleeping.

Or pretending to.

Elias didn’t care.

He approached the table.

The requested files were already waiting.

Investigation reports.

Witness statements.

Maps of Grenmoor.

Royal guard movement logs.

And a metal box containing the personal effects recovered from the site of the accident.

He removed his gloves.

Lit an additional lamp.

Opened the first dossier.

Too clean.

The official report was too clean.

Three typed pages.

No corrections.

No marginal notes.

No hesitation.

The prince had left at dawn to hunt alone, against the advice of his guards.

His horse was found in the afternoon.

Empty saddle.

Blood on the leather.

The body was discovered two hours later at the bottom of a ravine.

Neck broken.

Rifle still strapped to its sling.

Accidental death.

No evidence of foul play.

Case closed.

Elias turned the page.

A list of witnesses.

Four guards who had seen the prince depart.

Two local hunters in the forest that morning.

One village doctor who examined the body before its return to the capital.

Elias took a pen.

Wrote the names.

Cross-referenced them with the Royal Guard registry.

One by one.

Three of the guards had been reassigned to distant posts within weeks of the incident.

The fourth—

Dead.

Drowned in the harbor.

Night patrol.

According to the record.

The two hunters—

Gone.

No trace in any recent census.

The doctor—

Relocated to the continent.

Address unknown.

Elias stopped writing.

Six witnesses.

All gone.

Dead.

Missing.

Erased.

In less than six months.

He slowly lifted his gaze toward the archivist in the corner.

The old man had not moved.

The room remained silent.

Only the soft crackle of candle flames.

And, somewhere beyond the walls—

Rain.

Beginning to fall.

Elias opened the metal box.

Inside—

The prince’s rifle.

Clean. Polished.

The leather strap still attached.

A pocket watch.

Stopped at 3:20 in the afternoon.

And a small red leather notebook.

Its edges burned.

He picked it up carefully.

The first pages were intact.

Hunting notes.

Weather observations.

Quick sketches of landscapes.

But halfway through—

Charred.

Destroyed.

Reduced to fragile black fragments that threatened to fall apart at the slightest touch.

Elias tilted the notebook under the light.

Most of it was gone.

Erased.

But not completely.

Faint words emerged through the burn marks—

“port”

“shipment”

“codes altered”

His fingers tightened slightly.

Then—

He froze.

One final fragment.

Barely visible.

“do not trust—”

“The Ripper of the Mist” — Chapter 8 — The Ripper

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