The Golden Harbor
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey water that smelled of wet slate and the metallic tang of old blood, which was fitting, considering that I had spent the last three weeks scrubbing the remains of a struggle from the floorboards of the watchtower, a place that had long since ceased to be a site of defense and had become, in the eyes of the town, a...
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