The Golden Cellar
The rain does not fall; it is driven, a horizontal lash of grey water that blurs the boundary between the moor and the castle walls. You are running. Your lungs burn with a sharp, metallic taste, the air too thin to sustain the frantic pace of your legs. Behind you, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall groan open, not with the weight of hinges but with the wet, sliding sound of flesh. They are...
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