The Golden Cellar
The stone beneath your boots is cold, not with the chill of winter but with the deep, static weight of centuries, a cold that seeps up through the soles of your leather shoes and settles into the marrow of your bones as you stand at the threshold of the subterranean vault, a place that exists in the shadow of the great cathedral like a secret held too long in a clenched fist. You are the...
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