The Golden Harbor
The damp of the Blackwood Manor cellar did not merely settle on Elias Thorne’s skin; it seeped into the marrow, a cold, persistent weight that mirrored the rotting flesh of the golden lily he clutched in his left hand. It was the year 1348, and the lily, once a vibrant emblem of his exile’s false hope, now lay limp and brown, its petals curling inward like dead fingers. Elias, a scribe of...
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