The Golden Cellar
The stone wept. It was a cold, mineral weeping, slick and dark against the base of the tower. Silas stood alone in the cellar, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old iron. He pressed his palm against the rough surface. The masonry was cold. It was always cold. He had been here for three years. Three years in the dark, guarding the gate that should not open. He was a soldier. Or he...
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