The Golden Cellar
The fire did not begin in the hearth, nor did it start with the spark of a struck flint, but rather with the sudden, violent shattering of the great oak door, which splintered inward with the sound of a bone breaking in the dark, admitting a wind that smelled of ash, wet wool, and the iron tang of blood. Thomas Bradshaw, the master of the cellar and the keeper of the vintage, stood frozen...
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