The Golden Harbor
The wall had a seam. It ran from the floor to the ceiling, a hairline fracture in the ancient masonry that we, the Watchmen of the Iron Gate, called the Weeping Line. I knew it by feel before I saw it. My fingers, scarred and thickened by decades of handling heavy steel, would trace its path when I stood guard. It was a boundary. Beyond it lay the city, alive with the hum of engines and the...
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