The Golden Cellar
Chapter One Nikola Grigoryan’s fingers, stained black by the tallow and damp of the cellar, twisted the stem of the withered vine. He was forty years old, a distillery watchman whose pension depended on proving this heirloom still held life, a task the High Council had demanded with the cold precision of a tax collector. The air in the sealed room was thick, smelling of rot and old iron, and...
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