The Golden Cellar
The chisel bit into the steel, a sharp, metallic shriek that cut through the silence of the workshop. Elias Thorne did not look up. His eyes were fixed on the line he was carving, a thin, precise groove that hummed under the pressure of his hand. The air smelled of iron filings and the stale, sweet rot of the ink he had mixed that afternoon. It was a strange mixture, this ink. He had ground the...
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