Elara stumbled out of the shadow of the Saint-Jacques Tower, her borrowed clothes ruined and her body vibrating with adrenaline. She didn't dare use the Metro. Instead, she walked miles, cutting through the quieter streets of the Marais until she found a rundown, all-night hotel near the Gare de l'Est. She paid cash, registered under a false name, and sank into the relative safety of a tiny, shabby room.
She spent the next hour scrubbing the soot from her skin and hair, watching the black residue swirl down the drain. The girl who had entered the museum two days ago—the calm, precise curator—was gone, replaced by a fugitive with cracked fingernails and a silver key hidden in her shoe.
Once clean, she retrieved the locket and the sketch of the Second Key.
The key itself was a mirror image of the hourglass key, but instead of the hourglass symbol, it bore a stylized carving of a broken circle—an ancient symbol for completion thwarted, or profound absence.
She reread Vance's note: "The Second Key is worthless to men of power. They seek the treasure, but they do not seek the loss."
Loss. To men like Dubois, wealth and power defined existence. What would they deem worthless? Not gold, not influence, not life itself. They would discard something intangible: grief, poverty, historical anonymity, or ethical integrity. The key must be tied to an act of profound, deliberate sacrifice or failure. It was a philosophical lock.
She realized her next step couldn't be decoding; it had to be investigation. She needed to know who the Argentum Society was beyond Dubois, and she needed proof that would bring down her former mentor. She couldn't go to the police—Dubois controlled the police. She needed someone cynical enough to believe in an immortal-seeking cult, and resourceful enough to find evidence.
She needed Jules Reynard.
Jules was a notorious freelance journalist known for his biting, often dangerous exposés on Parisian corruption. While his methods were crude and his reputation scandalous, his facts were always meticulous. He had been banned from every major newspaper office for his abrasive nature, but his readers loved his defiance.
Elara found him where he usually worked: a smoke-filled café near the old Latin Quarter, hunched over a tiny table covered in overflowing ashtrays and sheaves of disorganized notes.
"Monsieur Reynard?"
Jules looked up, his eyes bloodshot and guarded. He was younger than Elara expected, perhaps late twenties, with a restless energy and a perpetually defensive posture.
"Who's asking? And are you here to complain about the smoking?"
"My name is Elara Dubois. I am a curator at the Bibliothèque Nationale."
Jules let out a short, harsh laugh. "A curator. I assure you, Mademoiselle, the latest scandals in ancient papyrus procurement are not front-page news. If you want a story on unpaid library fines, try Le Figaro."
Elara slid an envelope across the table. Inside were the heavily detailed photographic copies of Vance's cipher journal pages, marked with her initial translations of the Archduke clue and the hourglass symbol.
"This is the journal of Vance the Alchemist," Elara said, her voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "The one you wrote about four years ago—the one your editor killed because he said the Argentum Society didn't exist."
Jules picked up the photo of the cipher, his professional detachment crumbling into genuine disbelief. He recognized the script style instantly. His fingers trembled as they touched the paper.
"The Society... you're saying they're real?"
"They are real, Monsieur. And they just kidnapped Professor Laurent, they chased me across the city, and their leader is my boss, Monsieur Dubois. They are hunting for the final piece of the L'Or Perdu, which isn't gold, but something much, much worse. I have the key, and they will kill to get it."
Jules stared at the arcane script, then back at the polished, but soot-stained curator sitting opposite him. The look of utter conviction in Elara's eyes was undeniable. The sheer impossibility of the story made it feel terrifyingly true.
He sighed, pushing the ashtray aside. "You just walked into my life and gave me the headline of the century, Mademoiselle Dubois. You've convinced me. But I don't work for free. You supply the information, and I supply the defense. Where do we start?"
"We start with the key to the second lock," Elara replied, laying the sketch of the broken circle on the table. "It is the key of Loss. We need to find out what Dubois valued, and what Vance lost."