The Golden Harbor
The wind off the moor did not howl; it sanded. It was a fine, abrasive grit that found the gaps in the window seals and settled in the creases of the heavy wool blankets, a constant, low-level assault on the comfort of the stone-walled room. Elias Thorne sat by the dying fire, his hands resting on the edge of the oak table, fingers drumming a complex, arrhythmic pattern against the wood. He was...
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