The Golden Cellar
The dream began with the smell of wet wool and iron, a scent so pungent it coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat before he even opened his eyes. He lay in the damp cold of the cellar, the stone floor pressing against his spine like a judgment. Above him, the ceiling was a lattice of shadows, and below, the darkness breathed. He did not know how he had come to be there, nor did he care. In...
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