The Golden Harbor
The lock was rusted solid, a flake of orange decay that crumbled under Thomas’s thumb. He did not pull. He twisted. The iron bit into his skin, a warm line of pain that sharpened his focus. Inside the ward, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and rot, a heavy scent that clung to the back of the throat. He was thirty years old, a guard of the castle, and he had spent the last four days...
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