The Golden Cellar
The road to the keep is not a road at all, but a scar of packed earth that cuts through the autumn moor like a wound that refuses to close, and you walk it with the weight of a man who has already accepted his own burial, your boots sinking into the mud that smells of rot and ancient rain. You are not here for glory, nor for the gold that lies beneath the stone, but for the silence that waits...
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