The Golden Harbor
The fog in Blackwood did not merely obscure the harbor; it consumed it, a thick, soot-choked curtain that smelled of sulfur and old rot, pressing against the windows of the Vance estate like a living thing seeking entry. Elara Vance, thirty-two years old and hollowed out by five years of silence, stood in the study where the air was stale and the shadows long, her fingers trembling as they...
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