The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar did not smell of mold, as Elias Thorne had spent the last decade meticulously cataloging in his field notes, but of ozone and old, dried blood, a scent that seemed to cling to the back of his throat like a metallic taste that no amount of water could wash away. He stood with his back pressed against the cold, damp stone of the north wall, his fingers trembling not from...
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