The Golden Harbor
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the archive, a rhythmic drumming that felt less like weather and more like a demand. I sat in the corner of the room, the one farthest from the heavy oak door, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. The air was thick with the smell of decaying paper and damp wool. I was holding a glass vial. Inside, a single drop...
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