The Golden Harbor
The paper lay on the workbench, the edges curling slightly from the damp air that seeped through the warped shutters of the manor, and Elias Thorne read the line about the final commission for the fishing guild three times before he signed it, his hand trembling not from the cold but from the stiffness that had settled into the knuckles of his right index finger, a rigidity that felt less like...
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