**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its iron gates groaning like a dying man’s last breath.** The butler stood frozen in the grand foyer, his gloved hands trembling as he clutched a bloodstained letter addressed to the late Lord Harrow. A single candle flickered on the mahogany desk, casting long shadows that danced like accusing fingers across the polished floorboards. The grand clock in the hall struck midnight, its chime echoing through the empty corridors where no one dared to walk after dark. Outside, a figure in a tattered cloak vanished into the mist, leaving behind only muddy footprints leading straight to the library door. The scent of gunpowder and old books hung thick in the air, a silent witness to the violence that had just unfolded within those four walls. A woman’s scream tore through the silence, but when the servants rushed in, they found only a shattered decanter and a single playing card—*the ace of spades*—left face-up on the blood-smeared rug. The police would arrive by dawn, but by then, the killer would already be gone, lost in the labyrinth of secrets that Blackthorn Manor had guarded for a century.