The Golden Cellar
The smell hits you first. Not the damp rot of the cellar you expected, but something sweet, cloying, like overripe peaches left in the sun until they burst. You wake with your teeth clenched, the taste of iron and honey coating your tongue. You are not in your room. You are not in the cramped, freezing attic where you sleep above the bakery. You are standing in a corridor of polished obsidian,...
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