The Golden Harbor
The blood was not red but a thick, viscous crimson that smelled of iron and old rain, pooling in the hollows of the castle’s flagstones where the moonlight dared not reach. Sir Julian Vane did not pull his sword from the throat of the thing that had been wearing the face of his brother; instead, he let the blade sink deeper, feeling the cold, wet resistance of the creature’s flesh give way to...
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