The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The word hung in the air of the lantern room, sharp as a snapped wire, spoken by a voice that was not mine, yet wore the cadence of my own breath. I looked up from the brass fitting I was tightening, my wrench slipping against the cold metal, and turned to face the great Fresnel lens. It was a massive, intricate eye of glass and brass, standing twelve feet tall in the center of the...
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