The Golden Harbor
The feast was a rotting thing, a banquet of preservation where the air tasted of brine and old copper, and you sat at the edge of the table, your fingers stained with the black ink of the ledger, listening to the clatter of silver on bone china that echoed like the striking of a hammer on an anvil, a rhythmic, metallic pounding that seemed to vibrate in the hollows of your teeth, while the...
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