Chapter 3: Refusing the Royal Seal

Morning light streamed through the stained glass, casting mottled shadows across the oak desk. My fingertips brushed the cold family seal, the echo of last night's fourth bell still lodged in my throat as an unshed sigh. The iron chest in the attic stood empty, the names on the list driven into my mind like nails. The air carried the mingled scent of aged parchment and resin candles—the smell of time congealed, and the prelude to truth unveiled.

From the courtyard came the urgent clatter of hooves, punctuated by the sharp ring of military boots against iron stirrups—a presence heavy with coercion. The door was thrust open, and several soldiers in black cloaks, swords at their sides, poured into the great hall. At their head was a royal envoy, lean of face, with eyes sharp as a hawk's. He wore dark gray wool, a silver royal crest embroidered on his cuffs—understated, yet radiating the austere authority of power.

I set down my quill. Ink splattered onto the corner of the manuscript, blooming into a black flower. Rising to meet the envoy's icy gaze, I searched for some trace of scholarly respect, and found only the cold indifference of official business.

"Meier," the envoy said, his voice level. "I am here by royal command to investigate the circulation of the fragments of the *Chronicle of Saint-Germain*. The Crown has recently harbored doubts regarding the management of documents from the previous dynasty. The original must be examined to set the record straight."

I gave a slight bow. "Your Excellency, this manuscript was hand-copied by my ancestors. It is not an official archive. Why should the Crown intervene in a private collection?"

The envoy gave a light snort, a sardonic curl at the corner of his mouth. "A private collection? It records the whereabouts of the royal seal during the city lockdown. How is that a private matter? If you harbor concealment, the Crown cannot guarantee your family's good name. After all, the charitable reputation of the Meier family now rests entirely on royal favor."

My heart jolted. He knew of the relief plan Josephine Wagner had been organizing. This was not merely a demand—it was plunder wrapped in threat. I suppressed my indignation and pushed the manuscript toward the corner of the desk. "Your Excellency, the original is precious and cannot be handed over at once. However, I have a copy containing all the core historical material, sufficient for verification. The copy requires careful examination, though. Might I be permitted to organize it today and deliver it tomorrow morning?"

The envoy narrowed his eyes, studying me. After a moment, he nodded. "At the hour of Mao tomorrow morning. If no one delivers it, that will be defiance of royal command. In that case, the Crown will seize the evidence itself, and the Meier family will bear the consequences."

The soldiers filed out, the hoofbeats fading. I quickly locked the study doors and windows. The copy was merely a decoy. The true evidence lay in the erased handwriting and the redundant date annotations. I had to find, before nightfall, the transport record line hidden behind the text—proof that the disappearance of the royal seal was not theft, but a deliberately concealed transfer.

Theresa Ball pushed open the door, carrying the distinctive scent of pulp and glue from the restoration room. Her face was pale, but her eyes were resolute. She spread out a bundle of restored fragments. "Maximilian, after the envoy left, I examined the edge fibers and found a spot that had been repaired at a later date. Not with parchment glue, but with a sealing wax mixed with animal blood. This suggests someone tried to erase key records. The work is crude—clearly done in haste."

I took the fragment, touching the uneven surface. "Sealing wax with animal blood? That was rare in the mid-fourteenth century. Usually only military scribes accompanying troops used it. Theresa, are you certain this is a repair, not original writing?"

"I'm certain," she said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "And beneath the repair layer, I can faintly make out half a character—the stroke of '运' (transport). In that era, only the offices involved in coordinating supplies during the Black Death lockdown used such a terse cursive style. The disappearance of the royal seal is connected to the transport batches of that time."

My heart quickened. The clue pointed toward a deeper vortex. "Did you trace the deleted female testimony? The record about the nuns of the abbey assisting in the transfer of the ledgers?"

Theresa shook her head, pain flashing in her eyes. "That testimony was torn to pieces. It can't be reconstructed. But Anna Berg may have a lead. She holds the abbey's complete income and expenditure ledgers from the Black Death period. If the royal seal was ever briefly stored at the abbey, there must be a record of it."

Before she finished speaking, Franz Meier appeared silently at the doorway, clutching a letter with yellowed edges. "Master, this came from the abbey. The messenger was not Anna herself, but one of her young nuns. Anna's old ailment has flared up recently, so she couldn't come in person. She entrusted me to deliver this to you."

I lit a candle and unfolded the letter. It contained a single line written in the abbey's internal abbreviation symbols—calm and direct: "Ledger Volume III, page 14, 'Record of the Donation of the Communion Silver Plate,' check the 'theft' annotation."

Franz looked at me, hesitated, then finally spoke. "Master, I urge you to hand over the copy, or even destroy the original. Protecting the family is the priority now. If the Crown uncovers unfavorable evidence, Josephine Wagner's foundation will suffer as well. We have served the Crown for generations. To lose a century-old foundation over a single book would be a great pity."

I gazed at this loyal yet conflicted steward and sighed softly. "Franz, if I hand over the original, it means accepting the official verdict—and it means my ancestors will be nailed to the pillar of shame forever. The names on that list are not only my ancestors; they are the souls who guarded the truth in the darkness. I cannot preserve the family's skin and lose the backbone of its soul."

Franz lowered his head, his hands clenched into fists. "I understand your conviction, Master, but the risk... if this fails, it will be ruin beyond redemption."

“Risk comes hand in hand with truth.” I gazed out the window at the cloud-wreathed night sky. “Theresa, go at once to Josephine Wagner and inform her that this matter has been exposed. She needs to activate the contingency plan ahead of schedule and transfer the foundation’s key archives. Franz, you’re in charge of monitoring City Hall. Any inquiry related to the manuscript—stall them. Do not let a single word slip.”

Theresa gave a slight nod and departed; Franz melted back into the shadows. I returned to my desk, unfolded the tampered chronicle manuscript, and began comparing it word by word using chronological methodology. I discovered that the royal ruling claimed the seal had gone missing in the winter of 1349, yet the manuscript contained a record of a materials transfer in the spring of 1350, and itemized in that list was a batch of “relic storage boxes.”

“The timeline breaks here,” I murmured to myself. “If the royal seal truly vanished in winter, why is there still a record of relic storage boxes coming and going the following spring? Unless—the seal was never lost, but was moved to the monastery in exchange for material supplies during the Black Death. The official ruling was fabricated to conceal this very fact, pinning the theft on a lord who was already dead.”

The discovery filled me with both excitement and dread. The manuscript in my hands was not merely a witness to history—it was a weapon capable of toppling royal authority. But I understood all too well that every step forward would come at a price.

The next morning, Josephine Wagner arrived at the residence. She wore a deep blue velvet gown, graceful yet decisive, her gaze sweeping over the mountains of manuscripts. “Maximilian, I received Theresa’s report. If you intend to stand against the royal family, you must let me be part of the decision-making. I will not allow my family’s charitable work to become a casualty of political struggle.”

I met her eyes. “Josephine, this is not a struggle. This is repaying a debt. Our ancestors incurred a debt of truth, and now the time has come to settle it. If all you care about is reputation, then turn and leave. If you care about justice, then stand with me and hold this final line.”

She was silent for a moment, the sharpness in her eyes softening slightly. “I cannot abandon my family, but I too despise being deceived. Tell me—what do you intend to do?”

“Conceal the manuscript and trace the transport records,” I answered without hesitation. “Using the account-book leads Anna provided, combined with the chronological contradictions I’ve cracked, I’ll construct a complete chain of evidence before the royal envoy arrives. Even if we can’t make it public in the end, we must ensure the originals aren’t destroyed.”

Josephine smoothed her skirt. “Very well. I’ll use my connections among the nobility to buy you time. But remember this—once the crown formally opens a case, I can no longer offer you protection. When that day comes, you’ll have to face it alone.”

In the afternoon, Anna Berg arrived at the residence with a monk. Her face was haggard, but her eyes were cold and calm as ice, and in her hands she held a heavy leather-bound account ledger. “This is the page I found using the cipher,” Anna said, pointing to a spot. “In the ‘Donation Records of the Holy Communion Silver Platter,’ there’s an entry for ‘replacement of lost items.’ The date is March 15th, 1350—right after the materials transfer recorded in the manuscript. And among the replacement list is a ‘royal golden seal.’ This means the people at that time already knew the seal was missing and attempted to cover it up by creating a replacement.”

I picked up a magnifying glass to examine it, my heart surging. If the seal had truly been “stolen,” why would there be a replacement record? This suggested the seal had never actually left the monastery—it had only been temporarily concealed, and then the officials had tampered with the records.

“Anna, why was this ledger never brought to light?”

“Because during the Black Death, the monastery was sealed off, and the ledger was kept under the watch of a designated custodian,” Anna said coolly. “It wasn’t until the plague subsided and the crown took over the monastery that this ledger was filed under ‘secondary archives,’ where no one ever touched it again. It took me three years to dig it out from the depths of the basement.”

I closed the ledger. Every thread of evidence was converging on a single conclusion: the disappearance of the royal seal was a meticulously orchestrated cover-up, designed to protect some unknown secret—and that secret was tied to the ancestors of the Meier family.

Theresa had been quietly taking notes nearby. She looked up at me, her eyes gleaming. “Maximilian, we’ve done it. As long as we make this public, the official ruling will collapse on its own.”

But then the bell tower of City Hall tolled again outside the window, its dull, heavy chimes sounding like a death knell. I knew time was running out. Intelligence from Franz indicated that the royal envoy had already assembled at the waystation outside Graz, ready to storm in at any moment.

I stood by the window, watching the sky stained red by the setting sun. The moment of decision had come. Protect the family, hand over the manuscript, and buy a temporary peace? Or pursue the truth, risk life and livelihood, and let the falsified history see the light of day once more?

I turned and looked at Theresa, Anna, Josephine, and Franz. In their eyes I saw anticipation, fear, trust, and resignation. I took a deep breath, thinking of the list. The verdict was not the lie—the lie lay in the name it was given.

“I will not surrender the royal seal,” I said, my voice low yet uncharacteristically resolute. “But I cannot afford to bet everything on a single outcome. Franz, immediately transcribe the core pages of the manuscript in triplicate. Hide one copy in the monastery, another in the foundation’s secret vault, and the third in my personal luggage. Theresa, stay behind. You are tasked with destroying all direct evidence linking to me and fabricating a scenario in which I have fallen from grace due to academic controversy. Anna, take the ledgers and leave Graz for Vienna. Their archives there are far more extensive and can corroborate your findings. Josephine, initiate the foundation’s most urgent contingency protocol. Suspend all external funding projects and transfer the capital into underground accounts to prepare for the unexpected.”

At my words, they immediately went into action. The atmosphere in the room was tense, yet orderly.

“One more thing,” I added. “If I fail to return tomorrow, or if I am captured, you must ensure that this evidence gets out. Even if it is only a single page, it must become a testament to history.”

Night fell, and the streets of Graz lay empty and silent. I stood alone before the writing desk, gazing one last time at the manuscript. The candlelight flickered, a metaphor for the faint glimmer of truth struggling to shine in the darkness. I knew that from this moment on, I was no longer merely a paleographer. I was the man standing at the eye of the storm, attempting to hold the last lighthouse in place.

The chime sounded again, this time the seventh strike. It was no longer a warning, but a countdown. I picked up my quill, dipped it into the ink, and wrote the final line in the margins of the manuscript. Those words were both a letter to the future and a sacrifice to the past. The nib tore through the paper with a sharp sound, piercing the deathly silence.

I set the pen down, blew on the ink to dry it, and locked the manuscript inside a new wooden crate. The box was heavy, pressing down on my hands until they ached slightly. I lifted the crate and walked toward the depths of the darkness. What awaited me there could be prison, exile, or death, but it could never be a lie.

Outside, the sound of hooves rang out once more—this time, closer, and more urgent.