The Golden Cellar
The iron door of the Golden Cellar groaned under your hands, a sound like a dying animal, and you pressed your forehead against the cold metal, listening to the silence that waited on the other side. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man who had spent two decades coaxing wine from the stubborn clay of this estate, yet here you stood, trembling not from the chill but from the weight...
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