The Golden Harbor
The wet plaster of the courtyard wall wept as Elias Thorne held the jagged shards of the family crest, the silver lion’s head split cleanly down the middle, its painted eyes staring out with a dull, vacant stare that matched the grey sky above. He was forty-five years old, a constable for twenty years, and his hands, which had broken a hundred other men’s jaws without trembling, now shook so...
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