The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar of the old manor house at Oakhaven did not smell of damp earth or rot, but of ozone and ancient, crushed violets, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a secret too heavy to speak. It was the season of the High Feast, when the valley’s lords and ladies descended upon the stone halls of Lord Alistair Thorne to celebrate the turning of the year, their laughter...
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