The Wistful Voyage
The fog that rose from the mist-shrouded moors of the northern highlands did not merely obscure the world; it dissolved the very concept of distance, turning the air into a thick, gelatinous medium that tasted of damp iron and ancient, rotting peat. It was in this suffocating silence, where the wind died to a whisper and the stars were swallowed by a ceiling of grey wool, that Elias Thorne...
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