The Distant Legend
The fog rolled in from the harbor before dawn. It smelled of salt and rotting kelp. Elias stood at the window of his office. The glass was cold against his forehead. He was sixty-two. His hands trembled. Not from fear. From the cold. The city of Port Haven was waking up. Steam rose from the vents. The streetlights flickered and died. He adjusted his tie. It was black. It was always black. He...
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