Lyra didn't hesitate.
"There's a lot more than just inflated maintenance," she said, her voice low. "Most of the account books I checked are forgeries. Thornvale's true income isn't recorded anywhere official."
Michael's gaze sharpened.
Lyra stepped closer, lowering her voice further. "Based on what I pieced together—cross-referencing trade levies, old toll permits, tithe records from local villages—this territory should generate at least half a million gold coins a year."
Michael stilled.
Half a million.
One should remember that this was in gold.
In silver this was about fifty million silver coins per year.
This was truly a land of gold.
"All that wealth," he murmured, "and yet the manor looks like a tomb."
Lyra nodded. "It's being funneled somewhere. I couldn't trace all of it, but I found something."
She reached into her robe and pulled out a thin, tightly folded parchment—one sealed with a faint blue wax sigil, its edges nearly torn from age.
