The Golden Harbor
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a slow, gray sweat bleeding from the low-hanging belly of the sky, soaking into the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and chilling the marrow of his bones. He stood at the edge of the moor, where the heather had turned black and rotting with the first true bite of autumn, and he watched the fog roll in from the west, swallowing the distant spires of the...
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