The Golden Harbor
You are walking toward the edge of the city where the cobblestones give way to the wet, sucking mud of the harbor, and the air tastes of salt and old iron, a flavor that has been etched into your lungs since you were a child running barefoot on the cold streets of Oakhaven. It is late, or perhaps early, for time in this place has always been a fluid thing, pooling in the gutters and draining...
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