The Golden Harbor
The mist clings to the stone walls of the manor. It is thick. It is cold. You breathe it in and it tastes of iron. You are in the cellar. You have been here for three days. Or perhaps it is longer. Time has lost its shape. It bends around you like smoke. Above, the house stands silent. It is a house of old wood and darker secrets. You know this because you built the foundation. You know the rot...
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