The Golden Cellar
The sword hummed. It was a low, thrumming vibration that traveled up through the hilt, through the leather-wrapped grip, and settled deep in the marrow of Sir Alistair’s wrist. He stood in the center of the vaulted hall, the stone floor cold and slick beneath his steel-shod boots. Dust motes danced in the shafts of grey light filtering through the high, barred windows. He was not alone. The...
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