The Golden Harbor
The rain did not fall so much as it struck, a cold, relentless drumming against the slate roof of the chapel that sounded exactly like the gunfire that had emptied the streets of Blackwood three days prior. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool, stale incense, and the underlying, metallic tang of fear that clung to the skin like a second layer of cloth. Elias Thorne sat in the...
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