The Golden Harbor
The mist did not rise so much as it exhaled, a slow, grey breath from the throat of the valley that swallowed the village of Oakhaven whole, leaving only the tips of the thatched roofs and the crooked spires of the chapel to puncture the damp, silent air, a place where the air tasted of wet stone and old secrets, where the cobblestones slick with condensation reflected the weak, amber glow of...
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