The Golden Cellar
The fog in Oakhaven does not rise; it sits, heavy and wet, pressing against the glass of the watchtower until the world beyond is nothing but a grey smear. I am Silas, thirty-two years old, and I have held this post for nine years, watching the harbor, watching the ships, and watching the slow, rotting decay of my own daughter. Elara is twelve. She is in the Debtors’ Ward, dying of the Hollow...
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