The Golden Harbor
Why does the ink bleed? Tigran Hovhannisyan asked the question aloud to the empty barrack room, his voice cracking against the silence that had settled over the moss-covered lava fields outside. It was the third night since the smuggler’s corpse had washed up near the watchtower, and the symbol found carved into the dead man’s palm had begun to spread. The light from the oil lamp was low and...
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