The Golden Cellar
The gold was not metal. It was the color of the water, thick and cloying, pressing against Elias Thorne’s lungs. He kicked, his boots heavy with silt, but the weight of it pinned him to the bottom of the cellar, a darkness so absolute it felt like a physical thing. He gasped, sitting up in the mud, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm on the torn canvas of the tent. His body ached, a deep,...
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