The Golden Harbor
Thorne, you clumsy dog, look at what you have spilled on the vellum. The High Priest’s voice did not rise, but the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush the bone in your chest, a silence that tasted of copper and old dust, the kind of quiet that settles into the cracks of the stone floor where the shadows pool. You stared at the ink, that black, viscous tear spreading across the...
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