The Faded Shield
The ledger lay open on the mahogany desk, its spine cracked from years of use, the pages yellowed and brittle as dried leaves. You traced the ink with a finger that had spent twenty years scrubbing grout and polishing silver, your skin rough and mapped with faint scars from hot water and cold air. The numbers were simple, but the signature at the bottom was not. Julian Ashwood. The heir. The...
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