The Golden Harbor
The iron key bit into Elias Thorne’s palm, the metal cold and slick with the brine that had seeped through his coat over the last three hours of standing on the dock, his left leg a dead weight of lead and rot beneath the trousers. He did not look at the water, which was the size of a black eye, swollen and unblinking, but at the Archivist, who stood three paces away, leaning on a cane carved...
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