The Golden Farce
The fog does not roll in here; it rises, a slow exhalation from the black water of the Kestrel River, curling around the rusted pilings of the abandoned dock until the world beyond the immediate ten feet of your boots ceases to exist. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last six hours standing in the freezing mud, your hand resting on the cold steel of your service...
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