The Golden Greenhouse
The iron key is cold in my hand, a slab of black metal that bites into the meat of my palm as I turn it, and the sound it makes in the lock is a dry, final crack that echoes through the damp stone of the vault. I am Sir Thomas Bradshaw, and I am forty years old, and I am here to steal the Golden Greenhouse from Lord Malcador, because my son Arthur is dying, and the hum of that artifact is the...
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