The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The name was dragged out of the fog by a voice that sounded like grinding stone, and I knew before I turned that it was Vane. He stood at the edge of the pier, his silhouette cut sharp against the grey churn of the harbor, and the cold of the November night settled into my bones, a weight I had carried for twenty years of service in Blackwater. I wanted to arrest the Ghost. That was the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews