Ector summoned a monk from Amesbury, Brother Malduin, who could read the old Cumbric marginalia. Together, they turned to the page before the gap — 27K, a dry listing of a hedge dispute in Year 487. And after the gap, 28A began mid-sentence: “…and so the tithe was forgiven, but the shadow remained.”

“In the fifth year of Uther’s silence, Lord Emrys swore upon his unborn bloodline: should the Pendragon fall, the estate of Thornwell would open its western gate once each Waking Moon to the folk without faces. In return, the soil would never sour, and the well would never run dry. This pact was witnessed by the Grey Knight, who spoke no name. Signed, Emrys. Sealed, his thumb.”

The Book of the Estate now sits in his solar, leaf 27L replaced by a single blank page bearing his own thumbprint in soot. He has told no one. But sometimes, when Brother Malduin passes, he hears the monk whisper:

“Someone removed a single page,” Malduin said, “not to hide a crime — to hide an oath.”

And then the page 27L burst into white flame, leaving only the thumbprints — two of them — burned into the stone floor like a receipt.

Ector survived the night. But each morning after, a grey hair appeared at his temple. The well stayed sweet. The harvest held. And once a year, when the moon woke fat and low, he walks to the western gate alone.

“The new lord knows,” it whispered.