The Golden Harbor
You count the stitches in the leather strap of your belt. One. Two. Three. The thread is fraying, a pale vein of rot against the black hide. You are Elias Thorne, Warden of Blackwater, and you have three days until the solstice. The golden harbor gate is closed. The livestock in the lower pastures are gaunt, their ribs showing like the rungs of a broken ladder. You need the gate to open. You...
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