The Golden Harbor
The feast was not a celebration but a ritual of endurance, held in the vast, damp stone undercroft of the Blackwater Watchtower where the air smelled of stale tallow, rotting wood, and the metallic tang of old blood. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long, scarred oak table, his hands trembling not from age, which he was not yet of, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence...
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