The Golden Harbor
The rusted wheel of the ferry groaned under the weight of the tide, a sound like a man clearing his throat before a lie. Elias Thorne stood at the railing, his hand resting on the cold iron, feeling the vibration travel up his forearm into the bones of his shoulder. He was forty-two, and his knees ached with a dull, persistent throb that the morning dampness had swollen. He carried a warrant in...
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