The Golden Harbor
The fog did not lift so much as it thickened, a grey wool drawn tight over the face of the world. Elias stood at the helm of the *Ironclad*, a vessel that was not a ship but a cathedral of rusted iron and weeping brass, drifting upon a sea of liquid mercury. The air tasted of ozone and old blood. He was a captain, though he had not held a commission in the waking world for three years. Here, in...
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