The Golden Harbor
The ink on the parchment was still wet when Father Malachi slammed his palm against the heavy oak desk, the sound cracking like a bone in the silence of the scriptorium. "You have made a grave error, Thomas," he said, his voice low and vibrating with a danger that felt less like anger and more like the grinding of tectonic plates beneath the floorboards. "You have written the name of the saint...
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