The Wistful Silence
The air in the vault did not smell of dust, as one might expect from a place sealed for centuries, but rather of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of ionized particles, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat with the tenacity of a physical weight. He stood at the center of the circular chamber, his feet pressed firmly against the cold, obsidian-like floor that seemed to absorb...
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