The Golden Harbor
The root was warm, a pulsing, visceral heat that seemed to radiate from the soil itself, and Elias Thorne held it in his trembling left hand as if it were a live coal, the damp stone walls of the Blackwood Priory infirmary pressing in on him with the weight of centuries of accumulated silence. He was thirty-four, a man whose life had been defined by the rigid architecture of duty, and in that...
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