The Golden Cellar
The iron gate groans against the rust of the earth, a sound like a bone breaking in the deep dark, and you are already bleeding from the nose, the copper taste thick and warm in your mouth. You stand in the courtyard of the old Ashworth estate, the rain hammering down in sheets that turn the mud into a slurry of black glass. Above you, the sky is a bruised purple, split by jagged veins of...
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