The Golden Harbor
The bell did not ring. It shrieked. A high, thin wail tore through the velvet silence of the Grand Atrium. It was not the sound of time passing. It was the sound of time breaking. Elias Thorne stood frozen before the marble podium, his hand raised mid-strike, the silver mallet hovering in the air like a suspended leaf. The audience, a sea of black wool and severe silk, did not scream. They did...
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