Madley Biguing -

With a grunt, he hauled it toward the bank. Elara ran over, her skepticism vanishing as she helped him pull the sodden weight onto the grass. Using a rusted pocketknife, Arthur sliced through the leather.

"It’s just a story, Artie," his sister, Elara, would say, her boots crunching on the dry grass nearby. "The only thing in that bog is rust and old tires." Madley Biguing

Arthur’s family had been in Madeley for five generations. His great-great-grandfather had worked the kilns, breathing in the soot of the Industrial Revolution. But Arthur didn’t care for the iron; he cared for what lay beneath it. Legend had it that during the height of the Victorian era, a wealthy merchant—fleeing a scandal that would have ruined the town’s budding reputation—had cast a heavy iron chest into the deepest part of the bog. With a grunt, he hauled it toward the bank