The Golden Cellar
The count was precise: one hundred and forty-two steps down, each one echoing with the dull thud of stone on stone. Thomas Bradshaw kept the tally in his head, a rhythmic hammering that matched the throb of the iron ring in his left hand. He had walked for three days to reach Oakhaven, a village that seemed to have been forgotten by the cartographers of the Kingdom. The air here was thick,...
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