The Golden Cellar
The cellar smelled of wet stone and old wine, a heavy, suffocating perfume that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a second skin. He stood in the center of the room, his hands trembling not from the cold, which was biting and relentless, but from the sheer, crushing weight of what he held. In his arms, wrapped in a tattered wool shawl that had once been his mother’s, lay the clay...
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