The Golden Harbor
The wind screamed like a wounded dog, tearing at the rigging of the *Aurora* until the ropes snapped with the sound of breaking bones. Elias Thorne gripped the wet steel railing, his knuckles white, his fifty-two-year-old body aching with a deep, structural fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure. He was not here for the glory of the sea, nor for the romance of the coast; he was here for a...
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