The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The voice came from the dark, not a sound but a pressure against the inside of my skull, pulling me down into the cold water of a dream where I stood knee-deep in mud, holding a gold pin that bled light. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, the heavy wool of my nightwatchman’s coat still damp with the cellar’s breath. It was three in the morning, the hour the asylum held its...
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