The Golden Harbor
The road to the northern ridge was not a path so much as a scar carved into the flesh of the earth, a jagged line of grey stone and wet moss that bled under the relentless, indifferent rain of the highlands. Thomas Bradshaw walked it with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man who had long ago forgotten the rhythm of peace, his boots sinking into the mud that seemed to pull at his hem with a...
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