The Golden Oath
The fog rolled into the industrial district of Harrowgate not as a veil but as a heavy, wet blanket that smelled of coal dust and rusted iron, settling over the cobblestones and the brick facades of the old textile mills until the world shrank to a few yards of grey, suffocating visibility. You walk through it, your boots sinking into the slick mud, the rhythm of your steps a dull, mechanical...
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