The Golden Harbor
You stand at the precipice of the Obsidian Cliffs, where the air tastes of copper and ancient dust, and before you stretches a harbor that exists in no chart, a place where the water is not water but a liquid mirror of your own forgotten soul, shimmering with a terrible, golden hue that seeps into your very marrow, a light that does not illuminate but consumes, a radiance that promises the...
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