The Golden Harbor
The first thing you notice is not the smell of mildew, but the gold. It sits on the shelf in the sub-basement, a ledger bound in leather so old it has cracked into a map of dry rivers, its cover inlaid with flakes of gold leaf that catch the weak electric light of your lantern. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a junior archivist at the Blackwood Asylum, and you have come down here to find the...
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