The first riddle didn't come with blood. Not yet.
It came folded inside a powder-blue envelope, the sort that felt too expensive for bad news.Heavy stock. No stamp. No address. Just a name in looping, black ink. Nine envelopes arrived across Lowchester that week. Nine riddles. Nine recipients. Nine warnings.
"You'll find the truth where the silence ends."
The press would call them Riddle Me This, in time. But back then, they were just whispers?unsettling, yes, but not dangerous. Not until the first body appeared. Lowchester's post-war veneer, lace curtains, orderly hedgerows, civility in sponge cake form cracked clean down the middle. Because these weren't just riddles. They were accusations. Each line dripped with implication. Each recipient left wondering...
How much does someone know? And what are they willing to do with it?
