The Golden Cellar
The scale trembled under the weight of the chalice. Elias Thorne watched the needle dip, the brass beam creaking in the damp dark of the cellar. Thirty-two years old, and his hands shook not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing mass of the gold. It was his father’s relic, a thing of lineage and memory, heavy with the history of the Thorne name. He adjusted the counterweight, a dull iron...
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