The Faded Frequency
The mist does not lift; it merely thins, revealing the jagged teeth of the highland cliffs against a sky the color of bruised iron. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a border warden of the Crown, and you are tired in a way that sleep cannot fix. The brass compass in your breast pocket grows warm against your ribs, a low hum vibrating through your sternum, a frequency that has no name in any...
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