The Distant Journey
The fog in Vael did not roll in so much as it rose, a grey tide that swallowed the spires of the cathedral and the rusted cranes of the harbor until the world was reduced to a circle of wet wood and iron no larger than the workshop itself. Elias Thorne, forty years old and already carrying the weight of eighty in his shoulders, stood before the unfinished hull of the *Aethelgard*, his hands...
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