The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The name was a shout, ragged and wet, tearing through the damp air of the cellar. It came from above, from the darkness where the ceiling had begun to buckle, a warning that the structure was no longer holding its secrets. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not look up. He kept his eyes on the shadow in the corner, the one that breathed with the slow, aristocratic rhythm of Lord Vane. The water...
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