The Golden Master
The fog does not rise in the highlands; it descends, a heavy, wet wool that presses against the glass of the outpost window until the world outside dissolves into a grey nothing. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and for three years you have watched that nothing, waiting for the smuggler who slips contraband past your post with the ease of a ghost slipping through a wall. You want only one...
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