The Golden Harbor
You have carried the thing for three days, wrapped in oilcloth that smells of lanolin and old blood. It is a small, living weight against your ribs, a secret that beats in time with your own frantic heart. You are walking up the long, winding ramp toward the citadel of Saint Aveline, a place that does not exist on any modern map, yet you feel its stones pulling at you like a magnetic field. The...
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