The Golden Cellar
The rain in the valley of Ashworth does not fall; it seeps, a slow and persistent bleed from a bruised sky that has forgotten how to clear, turning the cobblestones of the High Court into a slick, treacherous mirror that reflects the weeping faces of the guards standing silent in their rusted iron, a vigil that has stretched so long across the centuries that the very air has thickened with the...
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