The Golden Harbor
The ink was wet. It glistened on the heavy parchment, a dark, viscous smear that looked less like writing and more like a bruise. I held the quill. My hand did not shake. I had trained it not to shake. My name is Elara Vane. I am thirty years old. I have been married for ten. My husband is Julian. He is the master of this house. He is the law here. The house is old. It sits on a cliff in the...
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