The Distant Clue
The cold in the belly of the ship is not merely a temperature but a physical weight, a dense, silent pressure that presses against your eardrums and settles into the marrow of your bones, a damp, metallic chill that smells of rusted iron and the stagnant, brackish water of the harbor where you have been moored for three weeks, waiting for orders that have become as opaque and unyielding as the...
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