The Golden Cellar
The inspection report lay on the damp flagstones, its edges curling into brown, water-stained rolls as Elias Thorne pressed his thumb against the parchment, the ink still wet and smelling of iron gall and decay. He was forty years old, a captain in the fortress garrison, and for the last three nights his lungs had felt like they were filled with wet sand, a gritty resistance that turned every...
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