The Golden Myth
The air in the cellar tasted of copper and old rain. Elias Thorne wiped his hands on his apron. The leather was cracked. It was dark. He did not look up. The door creaked. "You came," Elias said. His voice was flat. It was a tool. Like his chisels. The figure in the doorway did not answer. It was tall. It wore a coat of grey smoke. The face was a blur. A smudge of light. Elias knew who it was....
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