The Golden Cellar
The ledger is heavier than it looks, a slab of bound vellum that feels less like paper and more like a slab of wet clay, and you are holding it in a cellar where the air tastes of iron and old wine. Lord Blackwood stands before you, his face a mask of bored aristocracy, while the candlelight flickers against the damp stone walls behind him. You, Thomas, a Royal Constable of thirty years and a...
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