ENTRY 009: SIR BRONWYN’S LEGACY

Dear Diary,

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that great family drama often leads to great inventory. Today was no exception.

It started with a young man who shuffled into the shop mid-morning, glancing around like he expected to be followed. His wiry frame suggested he was not used to heavy lifting, which made the massive gauntlet he was lugging all the more suspicious. The piece was impressive—polished steel etched with intricate patterns and runes.

“Some knight’s gauntlet I found in the attic,” he muttered, avoiding my gaze. “Seems like it belonged to... uh, Sir Bronwyn the Unyielding.”

Now, Sir Bronwyn was a name I knew. He was a legendary knight and hero of a dozen wars, and apparently, he was still alive but well past his glory days. The gauntlet’s craftsmanship was unmistakable, but I played it cool.

“Nice piece,” I said. I offered the lad ten gold, and he bolted out the door as soon as the coins hit his palm. Odd, but not unusual.

Two hours later, a different young man walked in, this one a bit broader in the shoulders and carrying a breastplate. My curiosity was piqued when I noticed the same etchings as the gauntlet.

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“Just something I found in the attic,” he said quickly before I could ask. “I believe it used to belong to Sir Bronwyn.”

I raised an eyebrow but kept my mouth shut. He looked just as uncomfortable as the first guy, and after some half-hearted haggling, I bought the breastplate for twenty gold. He left in a hurry and promised to be back by supper.

By now, I was starting to sense a pattern.

The final visitor came just before closing: a lanky, nervous-looking lad clutching an ornate helmet. The visor alone could’ve fetched a decent price, but it was the name he dropped—Sir Bronwyn’s helmet—that sealed the deal.

“Let me guess,” I said, leaning on the counter. “You found it in the attic?”

His face went pale. “How did you—”

“Just a hunch.”

I paid him fifteen gold, and he scurried out without looking back.

As I polished the helmet later, it all clicked. The three young men had all looked vaguely alike—same nervous energy, same mop of unruly brown hair. Brothers, without a doubt.

By the end of the day, I had a gauntlet, a breastplate, and a helmet—all part of Sir Bronwyn’s legendary armor. It wasn’t until I brought the pieces into the backroom that I noticed something shiny in the corner. My heart sank as I recognized it: greaves.

From Sir Bronwyn’s armor.

The broom had swept them out from under a shelf where they’d been sitting for weeks. I vaguely remembered buying them from a farmhand months ago, who’d claimed he “found them in the attic.” (How big is their attic, anyway?!)

Apparently, Sir Bronwyn’s sons had been pawning their father’s legendary armor piecemeal, each in secrecy from the other brothers, and I’d unwittingly ended up with the full set.

The only question is, do I display it as a collector’s piece or try to sell it back to the old knight himself? Something tells me he might want a word with his sons first.

Yours in profit,

Garren