The Golden Harbor
The iron gates of the Blackwater Foundry did not just rust; they wept a black, viscous sludge that stained the cobblestones beneath my feet with the permanence of a grave marker, and as I stood there, my hands trembling not from the biting November wind that cut through my wool coat but from the sheer, suffocating weight of the secret I carried in my chest like a second, heavier heart, I could...
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