Prologue
The sound of water gurgling against the stone walls was always audible; always a presence back in your mind. It was just that, when you’ve spent enough time in this place, you’d get so used to it, it was hardly noticeable.
This was an entirely different story. It was true, that the sea usually acted up during the night, but today... The thundering sound of massive waves crashing into the stones again and again ...and again.
He’d never experienced anything like this. Unlike his brothers of trade, he was born far back into the country, away from any large body of water. And even though he’d been dragged here as soon as his jawline had started to show, he’d never gotten used to this place. He was a kind soul, calm and made for an idyl life on the country side, not for this rotten city full of hardened sailors, pickpockets and starving children. So when the walls started to vibrate and the flasks and glasses in the vitrines, which lined this corridor, started to shake, it came as no surprise, he was scared shitless.
With every deafening thumb, he curled into himself more and more, ran faster and faster, skittering over the wet parquet floor. Arrived at the door, he clumsily looked for the key in his dark hooker’s green cloak- the name more fitting than he’d ever anticipated. The roar of a colossal wave hitting the ministry with all its ancient elemental might, shattering little jars made him cower into the door, which suddenly gave in. Whimpering mess that he was, he stumbled into the room, hardly keeping himself from falling. He quickly fixed his posture and took a breath, a slow deep breath, filling every last inch of his lungs with oxygen. This place has been standing for the past 300 years, maybe longer. In all that time, the ministry has been standing strong, a shield against the ocean and all that lurks in its water. Today was not the day, these walls would crumble, so you needn’t fright.
Nevertheless, something was odd. The door had been open, which was unusual, but in itself not suspicious. Members of the ministry trusted each other blindly, had grown up together, gone to the same academies. There were hardly any secrets between them and with that hardly any need for locks. Just when he had this thought, his eyes fell on a five tapered candleholder. It was brass, perfectly polished, sitting on atop two old books on a cabinet. Just standing there like nobodies business, like nothing happened. Certainly not alike him; not like everything was about to crumble, collapse, tumble downwards and suffocate him.
He wanted to scream. But instead, he started to quietly curse; curse this wretched city, all of its inhabitants, curse himself, especially his obnoxiously perfect face, to have gotten him in this exact situation. He never wanted any of this. He never could or would want any of this. Yet it was happening. So he gathered all the resolve he had left of the perfect marble tiles and rang the alarm.
There had been nothing oh so devastating about the candelabra itself, nor the sleek ivory candles atop each arm. It was the smoke, soundlessly rising to the ceiling, the wicks still glowing a shy orange, that terrified.
Someone was there.
