The Golden Harbor
The road into the valley of St. Jude’s was a ribbon of mud that clung to the cart wheels with a tenacity that felt personal, almost jealous. Elara pulled her shawl tighter against the biting wind, the wool scratching her neck, and watched the village emerge from the fog like a ghost rising from a shallow grave. It was a place of stone and shadow, where the church spire pierced the low sky like...
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