The Golden Cellar
The gold weighed nothing, which was the problem. Elias Thorne held the shattered circlet in his palm, feeling the jagged edges bite into the meat of his thumb, counting the fragments one by one. Seven pieces. Seven shards of the High Court’s own currency, broken by the weight of his own duty. He sat in the damp cellar, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and old rot, and waited for the...
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