The Golden Harbor
The feast was a cacophony of clinking crystal and the low, resonant hum of a hundred voices discussing the fate of the world, yet for Silas Vane, the air in the Grand Hall of the Obsidian Institute felt as thin and brittle as parchment held too close to a flame. He sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, his hands folded in his lap, fingers interlaced with a tightness that spoke of a...
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