The Golden Harbor
The stone did not breathe. It only held its silence. Elara sat in the cold cell, her knees drawn to her chest. The air smelled of damp moss and old iron. Above her, the ceiling was a vault of grey blocks, carved with faces that seemed to watch without seeing. She was a prisoner of the Abbey of Saint Jude. Or so the order claimed. She was a sinner. A thief of souls. The door creaked. Brother...
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