The Golden Harbor
Silas. The name is spat across the workshop floor, sharp as a piece of broken flint. It comes from Vane, the spymaster, who stands in the doorway with his back to the fire, his shadow long and thin against the stone. The heat in the room is oppressive, a wet, heavy thing that clings to the sweat on your neck. You are forty-two, a master glassblower, and your lungs are already failing you, a dry...
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