The lid rose. No gold. Only folders, sealed envelopes, and ink that had waited longer than silence should. Alden swore, rifling anyway. “Papers still pay if you sell them to the right buyer.”
Rowan’s eye snagged on a familiar hand. The top page bore the name Hale in his father’s careful script. He lunged. The shelf behind him groaned and tipped; ledgers slammed down like falling anchors.
Alden cried out, pinned at the ankle. The crowbar clanged away. Dust boiled up in a dry wave.
Rowan grabbed the folder and the medallion, backed toward the gap, and left to the sound of a man discovering there are worse things than being poor.
