The Golden Cellar
The rain in St. Jude’s square did not wash the city clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a dark, reflective mirror of the cathedral’s gothic spires. Elias Thorne stood under the narrow eave of the archivists’ annex, his coat damp and heavy, watching the steam from the train station curl into the grey afternoon. He wanted to run, to cross the wet square and grab...
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