The Golden Cellar
The carriage wheels bit into the gravel, shaking the bones of Aldous Thorne as he traveled toward the Iron Citadel. The air smelled of wet iron and ancient dust, a scent that clung to his wool coat and seemed to seep into the pores of his skin. He was a scholar of history, a man who had spent forty years deciphering the marginalia of dead kings, yet here he sat, bound for a place that did not...
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