The Golden Harbor
The brass compass in Elias Thorne’s hand did not point north. It pointed inward, the needle trembling with a violent, rhythmic pulse that synchronized with the beating of his own heart. He stood at the edge of the Golden Harbor, a stretch of coastline that appeared on no chart, where the air hung thick with the metallic tang of copper and old, dried blood. The year was 1893, and Elias, a...
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