The Golden Cellar
The dampness in the cellar was not merely a condition of the air but a physical weight, pressing against Elias Thorne’s shoulders as he knelt on the cold stone. He was forty-two, a veteran of the National Guard with a body that still remembered the specific ache of discipline, yet here he felt only the trembling of his own hands. In his grip, a rusted iron key hung from a loop of leather, the...
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