Chapter 1: The Gray Candle First Lit

Graz night wind howled through castle stone walls. I stood beneath the archive dome, fingertips brushing the yellowed parchment—mold mixed with pine-resin bitterness hit my nose. *Graz Chronicle* was stuffed behind tax records, leather cover peeling. I lit a beeswax candle, about to shelve it in the "pending restoration" corner, when my fingers swept the final page. Obvious repair marks there, edges jagged, as if scraped raw by a sharp tool. My breath stopped. As a paleographer, I instinctively distrusted such irregular gouges. The year plague ravaged, countless families falsified documents to hide deaths or seize property—and this codex recorded key decisions during the regency. If these words were tampered with, the crown's verdict of "regent treason" might be a crafted lie. I raised the candlestick, leaning into the scraped blank.

"Sir, you haven't dined." Franz Meier stood at the door, shadow stretched thin by candlelight. Family steward, loyal to the point of stubbornness.

"Franz, perfect timing. This manuscript seems old—I need to verify its provenance."

Franz's gaze locked on the damaged book, eyelids twitching: "This volume belongs to the royal restricted collection, not on the restoration list. Recommend immediate sealing. Do not touch."

"Why? If harmless, why obstruct?"

"Because… last time someone touched such things, the whole family nearly died. The plague year—these very lines sealed the manor under quarantine. Looking back, that may not have been divine punishment, but human design."

I sneered: "Human? You mean the regent? History records he refused to open the city gates during the outbreak, leaving three thousand refugees frozen outside the walls."

Franz didn't answer. Silently he pulled an iron key from his coat and set it on the counter; it rolled half a turn with a crisp clink: "This is the seal. If you insist on reading, sign your name. But remember, sir—some truths, once uncovered, can never be covered again."

I signed. The pen's scratch cut harshly through the silent night. Franz's silhouette vanished down the corridor, suspicion unresolved. His "human design"—did he mean the plague back then, or this present purge of history? I reopened the damaged book, adjusted the flame, angled light at forty-five degrees across the page. The scraped fibers spiraled irregularly—typical Graz handmade paper—but the gouge depth far exceeded surface. If merely altering text, why cut through the base fibers? I picked up the magnifier. Residual ink wasn't iron-gall's brown bloom, but deep black, metallic-glinting fine particles.

"Theresa, I need you here." The door cracked open; Theresa Ball slipped in sideways, arms full of new parchment rolls, hair disheveled, face pale from desk work. Archive restorer, cautious as a startled rabbit, but eyes sharper than precision instruments.

She saw the spot, froze mid-step, then hurried over: "Maximilian, what did you find? This gouge isn't wear—it looks like… someone destroying evidence."

"Not just destroying." I took a silver stylus and pried at the paper scraps. "Look, the stroke pressure is immense—every mark carved like into bone. This isn't a hand recording history. This is a hand in fear."

Theresa leaned in: "Iron-gall ink, yes, but mixed with ground carbon powder. Extremely expensive formula—only the crown's most elite scribes used it."

My heart pounded. Whoever wrote this held high rank. "Theresa, pull all records of carbon-ink manuscripts from the plague period. I need to know who was secretly using this ink."

Theresa's eyes flickered: "This could offend people. The monastery that handled royal records is half-demolished; the remaining monks are in seclusion."

"I don't need them. I need the accounts. Anna Berg holds an old monastery ledger tracking special material purchases."

Theresa paused, then nodded: "I'll contact her. But she may refuse—the monastery is sealed tight."

Just then, urgent hoofbeats shattered the silence. The heavy wooden door swung open; cold wind swept in with snow. Anna Berg stood there in a thick wool cloak dusted with fine flakes. Monastery document scholar, devout and composed.

She saw the damaged scroll, brow furrowed: "Why notify me only now? I waited all night at the monastery—snow so heavy even the post horses moved slow."

"Apologies, Anna. This is urgent. We need a copy of that ledger recording carbon-ink purchases."

Anna took the handkerchief but didn't wipe—clutched it, knuckles white: "You've asked the wrong person. The monastery doesn't track royal scribes' private supplies. That's their privilege."

"Privilege?" Theresa cut in. "During the plague, privilege was privilege—but accounts must balance. If the crown bought ten rolls of carbon ink and recorded only three, where did the other seven go?"

Anna's gaze drifted, finally settling on the damaged scroll: "I did see such records. The worst plague year, there was a special expenditure marked 'preservation and sealing.' The purchaser was…" She paused. "The name was blacked out. But beside it, a code name: 'Gray Candle.'"

My pupils contracted. Gray Candle—never in family lore, but folk legend whispered of a secret lineage. "Who is 'Gray Candle'?"

Anna shook her head. "I don't know. The monastery’s official position is that the 'Gray Candle' was a recorder within the royal court who wished to remain anonymous. He said that some history cannot see the light and must remain buried beneath the ashes."

"Buried beneath the ashes," I murmured, glancing back at the manuscript. The scraping marks seemed as if a layer of ash truly covered the truth.

At that moment, the sharp click of heels on stone floorboards echoed from the end of the corridor, the rhythm elegant yet carrying an undeniable pressure. Josephine Wagner entered, her gown exquisitely intricate, an amber necklace at her throat refracting a warm glow in the candlelight. As a board member of the family foundation, she was elegant and decisive; the air seemed to freeze wherever she went.

She walked directly to the desk, sweeping her gaze over the damaged scroll. A polite, distant smile curled at the corner of her lips. "I’ve heard you are digging up some rather unsuitable old matters."

"We are merely organizing the archives, Madam." I tried to keep my composure.

"Organizing?" Josephine let out a soft, chilling laugh. She extended a silk-gloved finger to tap the scrape marks. "My father used to say that beneath Graz lay something heavier than gold. Be careful. Do not unearth bones that should not be seen."

I met her gaze. "Madam, what I am looking at is not bones, but handwriting. The scraping technique here is crude. If someone deliberately concealed it, it must have been done in haste."

Josephine’s eyes sharpened, and she leaned in closer. "Crude? Perhaps it has simply been too long. But Maximilian, you must understand: in this era, concealing the truth is not safer than revealing it. I support the family’s charitable endeavors to allow those who died in the Black Death to rest, not to let them continue quarreling in their graves."

"Rest?" Theresa couldn’t help but interject, her voice trembling. "If the truth is that they were slandered as traitors, the dead should not rest. They have the right to know who misjudged them."

Josephine’s expression turned instantly cold. She looked at Theresa as if she were an unintelligent child. "Theresa, you are too naive. History is written by the victors, and we remain outsiders on the fringes of that victory to this day."

I stepped in. "Madam, regardless of who writes the history, handwriting does not lie. I need time to analyze the residue beneath the scratches. If my deduction is correct, what will be overturned is not just a settled verdict, but a lie that has persisted for fifty years."

Josephine remained silent for a long moment. Her gaze moved between me, Theresa, Anna, and the manuscript, finally settling on her own hands. "I will give you three days. If you cannot produce concrete evidence within three days, I will have Franz burn this volume. Not to cover up the truth, but to protect the family from being dragged into unnecessary strife."

I looked at Franz. He still stood in the shadows, saying nothing, only the iron key in his hand reflecting a cold light. "Three days." I repeated, a sense of bleakness rising in my heart. I carefully wrapped the damaged book in linen. "I will do my best. But I warn you all: once something is ignited, it can no longer be extinguished."

Nightfall had fully set in. The castle’s candle flames were extinguished one by one, leaving only a faint sliver of light in a corner of the archives room. I held the book against my chest, feeling the chill of the rough paper seeping through the fabric. Theresa and Anna silently followed me out of the archive room. The corridor was empty and deep, our footsteps stretching and echoing with a heavy loneliness.

"Anna," I stopped at a turn in the corridor, turning my head to ask, "The codename 'Gray Candle' you mentioned—are there any other records of it?"

Anna shook her head. "Only that single reference. But in the deepest part of the monastery, I discovered a hidden compartment. Inside, there were no ledgers, only a roll of blank parchment."

"Blank?"

"Yes, completely blank. But on the back of the paper, a layer of extremely faint ink markings faintly showed through. It seemed as if someone had written there, then thoroughly pressed it flat with a hot iron."

A chill rose in my heart. A hot iron? That was a sophisticated technique for removing stains or forging documents. If there were residues on the back of that blank paper, it meant...

"It means someone was destroying a more original testament," I finished the thought, my tone unequivocal.

Theresa clutched the scroll tightly, her voice shaking. "How do we find that paper? The monastery is now so sealed off that even a dog couldn’t get in."

"We don’t need to go inside the monastery." I pointed to the swaying, decaying lantern overhead. "The underground water systems of Graz are connected to the monastery’s foundations. Theresa, do you remember the passage we discovered last rainy season?"

Theresa’s eyes lit up. "I remember. That channel leads straight to the castle’s drainage outlet, but there’s an old snake coiled there, and it’s full of rotting water."

"Now is not the time to fear snakes." I handed the damaged book to Theresa, signaling her to protect it, then turned to look in the direction where Josephine had stood. Although she had already left, her oppressive presence lingered in the air. "Within three days, we must not only recover the scraped-away name but also find that ironed-flat, blank paper."

"Why?" Franz’s voice finally emerged from the shadows. He slowly walked toward me, his face looking old and weary in the candlelight. "Are you searching for the name of a ghost?"

I looked at him, my gaze firm. "No, Franz. We are searching for the voice of a living person. The one who was erased once refused to yield to the enemy and tried to protect this country, yet was slandered as a traitor. Now, I am going to make his handwriting speak again."

Franz fell silent for a moment, then suddenly pulled an iron key from his chest and tossed it into my hands. The key skidded across the flagstones, emitting a sharp, clear sound. "This is the spare key to the underground sluice. But I warn you, Maximilian, the path underwater is far darker than you imagine. And it may not just be a serpent down there."

I gripped the key tightly, the cold metal biting into my palm. "I know. But some paths must be walked by someone. Otherwise, we are doomed to live in the shadow of lies."

I raised my head to look at the soaring spires of the castle. The night outside the window was as dark as ink, and the streets of Graz lay asleep in the darkness. At that moment, that scraped manuscript was resting quietly in Theresa’s arms, like a dormant bomb ready to detonate the secrets of the entire kingdom at any instant.

Who was the name that had been scraped away? The question pierced my heart like a thorn. As I moved toward the entrance of the underground sluice, that air, suppressed for decades, was seeping quietly through the rotting wooden door.