The Wistful Voyage
The salt air in Oria does not clean; it corrodes, settling into the lungs of the city’s inhabitants like a fine, white grit that tastes of iron and old blood. I am Elias Thorne, a clerk of forty-two years, and I have spent the last decade mapping the veins of the earth in the deep mines beneath our fog-bound coast, my life a series of quiet, unremarkable reports filed in triplicate. My desire...
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