The Wistful Atlas
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in; it seeped, a gray tide that rose from the cobblestones and swallowed the world whole. Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the City Watch, stood on the balcony of the Magistrate’s Hall, his breath pluming in the cold air. He wanted the pension. Twenty years of service, a back that ached with every shift, and a cracked pocket watch in his breast pocket that had belonged...
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