The Golden Maze
The fog in Oakhaven does not merely obscure; it presses against the skin like a wet, cold cloth, muffling the sounds of the city into a dull, rhythmic thud that feels less like traffic and more like the slow, grinding heartbeat of a dying beast. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose hands have spent three decades tracing the invisible lines of the world, and you stand at the...
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