The Distant Metropolis
The cellar of the Whitmore estate, which had once served as a larder for the harvests of a hundred seasons, now stood as a cathedral of silence, its stone walls sweating with the cold breath of the earth that held it in its grip. Elara Whitmore stood at the center of this subterranean hollow, her hands resting upon the rim of a clay urn that was ancient beyond the counting of years, a vessel...
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