The Golden Harbor
The dream was always the same: a harbor of liquid gold, calm and shallow, where you could wade in without getting your feet wet. You woke with the taste of copper on your tongue, the sheets tangled around your legs like vines. It was the third watch, the hour when the shadows in Blackwood Hall stretched longest and the fire in the hearth burned lowest. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a scribe...
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