The Golden Harbor
The candle flame in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not flicker; it stretched, a long, pale tongue of light that reached out toward the desk where Elias Thorne sat, his hands trembling so violently that the quill scratched a jagged scar across the vellum. He was forty years old, a man who had spent two decades cataloging the decay of the world in dry, academic terms, yet here, in...
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