The ink on the last page had barely dried when Arthur understood what his grandfather had meant by the word price.
The manuscript lay on his desk in the Winchester study at Yew Hall, its leather binding cracked and darkened by a century of Yorkshire damp. Arthur had found it three months ago, hidden behind a loose panel in the library wall, wrapped in oilcloth that smelled of lavender and neglect. It was a sword manual, yes—that was the public story—but it was also something more. It was a ledger of...
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