The Golden Harbor
The boy. Thomas, get down from the shelf. He did not move. His fingers were stained gold to the wrist, a wet, heavy smear against the parchment. The candle in the iron sconce sputtered, throwing long, jagged shadows across the damp stone walls of the archive. The air smelled of rotting vellum and the metallic tang of old blood. Thomas was twelve, small for his age, with eyes that had grown too...
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