The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The name hung in the damp air of the outpost, a single syllable spoken by no one, yet heavy with the weight of three years of silence. Elias sat alone, the fluorescent light above him flickering with a sickly, intermittent buzz that seemed to sync with the throb in his temples. In his hands, he held the sapling. It was a slender thing, its bark a pale, dusty gold, curled and brittle as...
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