The Golden Cellar
The brass clasp of the watch was biting into Elias’s thumb, a cold, sharp pain that cut through the thick wool of his glove. He was sitting on the edge of the cot in the barracks, the floorboards groaning under the weight of the morning’s damp, and he was trying to remember if he had locked the door to the archives. In the dream, the cellar had been warm, the air thick with the scent of old...
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