Not jewels.
An ingot.
Stamped with a faint crest.
Heather stared.
“That’s…” Her voice cracked. “That’s the Prince’s seal.”
Flynn’s hand tightened on her back. “Then it’s real. The bloody hoard—this part of it, at least—is real.”
She reached out, gloved fingers trembling, and touched the bar. The metal was colder than she expected. Heavier. Quiet in a way that felt almost sentient.
“Harris hid this,” she whispered. “Fiona sealed it. This has been here since 1748. Flynn… this is Scotland’s lost legacy.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Heather turned, and found him staring at her, not the gold. Something raw and bright lived in his expression.
“Mo chridhe,” he murmured. “You found it. You did it.”
Her eyes burned. “We. We did.”
He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
But she didn’t get to linger in his gaze.
Because there was more.
“Oh God,” Heather breathed. “There’s something under the bar.”
Flynn angled the torch. “Another box?”
“No. Cloth… or parchment—something wrapped.”
Flynn lifted the ingot, the strain bending his shoulders, and set it gently on the hearthstone. Heather kept the light steady, her breath thin.
Beneath it lay a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, edges cracked.
Heather’s pulse leapt. “This might be the rest.”
“The rest?”
“There has to be more, right?” she whispered. “One gold bar can’t fund a whole rebellion…”
Flynn looked on, warily. “Go on, then.”
Heather lifted the bundle carefully. The cloth crackled like brittle leaves. She placed it on her lap, fingers shaking so hard she had to pause.
Flynn steadied her hand silently.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured.
She breathed once.
Twice.
Then unwrapped history.
