The Golden Cellar
In the damp cold of the cellar, Elias Thorne held the ledger to his chest, the leather cover slick with condensation that felt less like water and more like the sweat of a dying man. He was forty years old, a clerk of the Oakhaven Council, and for the last six hours he had been counting gold coins that did not belong to any known mint. The cellar was a vault beneath the town hall, carved from...
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