The Golden Harbor
The winter in the manor of Blackwood Hall did not arrive; it seeped. It crept through the cracks in the oak paneling and settled into the marrow of the bones, a cold so profound it felt less like a temperature and more like a judgment. Elias Thorne, a man who had crossed half the continent to escape the debt of his bloodline, sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, his hands folded...
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