The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar did not smell of earth or rot, but of stale coin and old blood. It was a scent that clung to the back of the throat, a metallic tang that no amount of breathing could scrub away. I stood in the center of the vault, the floor stones cold beneath my bare feet, listening to the silence that was not empty but heavy, a physical weight pressing against my eardrums. This was the...
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