The Golden Harbor
The stone of the Abbey walls wept with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather, a dampness that seeped into the marrow of anyone who spent their nights in the scriptorium, and for Elara, the daughter of the fallen King, it felt less like moisture and more like the slow, inevitable leakage of her own dwindling life force. She sat at the heavy oak desk, the surface scarred by the knives of...
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