The Golden Harbor
The Blackwood Institute stood on the edge of the city’s forgotten district, a sprawling edifice of grey stone that seemed to absorb the November light rather than reflect it. Elias Thorne, a man whose spine had long since conformed to the curvature of his office chair, sat before a stack of unprocessed ledgers, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the heavy velvet...
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