The Golden Cellar
The cellar smells of wet iron and old wine, a scent that has seeped into the marrow of your bones over twenty years of service. "Elias," the voice calls out, sharp and brittle, echoing off the damp stone walls. You do not turn. You are counting the bottles again, a nervous tic that keeps your hands from shaking, because if you stop counting, you will have to look at the gold. The Golden Cellar,...
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