The Golden Harbor
The candlelight in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not so much illuminate the room as it seemed to breathe, a slow, amber pulse that matched the rhythmic scratching of quills against vellum, a sound that had been the only heartbeat Elias Thorne knew for the last three years, a constant that had replaced the throb of his own heart with the mechanical, satisfying click of ink meeting...
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