The Golden Harbor
The rain did not fall so much as it was hurled, a horizontal sheet of grey iron that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into a slick, treacherous mirror. Sergeant Elias Thorne walked with his head down, the brim of his cap pulled low against the spray, his boots striking the wet stone with a rhythm that was less a march and more a funeral drum. He was a man who had seen the world strip...
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