The Golden Cellar
The mortar will not set, Master Thorne. It smells of rot, not lime." Elias did not look up from the trowel in his hand, the steel cold and slick against his calloused palm as he worked the black slurry into the gap between the last two ashlar blocks of the crypt’s eastern wall. The light from the single tallow candle he had lit an hour ago was guttering, casting long, trembling shadows that...
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