The Golden Cellar
The heavy iron key lay cold in your palm, its teeth worn smooth by centuries of use, the metal biting into the calluses of your right hand. You stood in the deepest part of the Abbey of St. Jude’s cellar, where the air tasted of damp limestone and the faint, sweet rot of aging oak. The vault before you was not a door but a wall of seamless stone, sealed with a mechanism that predated the abbey...
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