The Distant Temple
The cellar smelled of wet limestone and the stale, metallic tang of old iron, a scent that seemed to cling to the back of Arthur’s throat like a persistent cough. He stood before the damp brick wall, his hands trembling not from the chill but from the sheer weight of the argument that had just echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and he watched the condensation bead on the surface of the stone, each...
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