The Golden Harbor
The mist clings to the cliffs of the Isle of Aethelgard like a shroud woven from the breath of the dying, and I find myself standing at the edge of the precipice, where the stone crumbles into the black, churning sea. The air here tastes of salt and iron, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat, reminding me constantly of the blood that runs in my veins and the blood that is owed to...
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