The Golden Harbor
The glass vial was heavy, a thick-walled cylinder of amber glass that Elias Thorne held with a grip so tight his knuckles turned the color of old parchment. His hands shook, not from the cold that bit through the wool of his tunic, but from the sheer, animal weight of the liquid inside. In the cellar, the air was thick, a dense slurry of rot and iron that coated the back of his throat. He...
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