The Golden Cellar
The damp air in the cellar tasted of iron and old rot, a flavor Elias Thorne had known for twenty years of service. He stood before the heavy iron door, his hand resting on the cold steel, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm that matched the pulsing gold veins embedded in the stone walls. "Open it," he said, his voice low, stripped of its usual command. Behind the door, the silence...
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