The Golden Cellar
1892, October 14th. The cellar smells of damp limestone and old copper. I have been scrubbing the floor for three hours, my knuckles white and raw, but the stain from the spilled wine remains, a dark bruise on the stone that no amount of effort will erase. My name is Elias Vane, and I am twelve years old, though my hands look like those of a man who has worked in the mines. The debt is three...
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