The Golden Quest
The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and gray, tasting of salt and rust. It clung to the cobblestones of Whitmore’s Dock, erasing the edges of the world. Elias Thorne stood by the railing, his fingers white-knuckled against the wet wood. He was a man of thin lines and sharp angles, his face a map of long nights spent hunched over microscopes. "You’re blocking the view, Mr. Thorne," said a...
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