The Golden Cellar
I arrived at the manor of Lord Ashworth on a Tuesday, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and impending rain, and I told myself that I was there to find a body, not a soul, because the living are far more complicated to pin down than the dead. The gatekeeper, a man whose face was a map of old scars and older grudges, did not let me pass with a word, only a nod that carried the weight of a...
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