The Golden Harbor
The road to the village of Oakhaven was not paved, but it was worn deep by the wheels of carts and the feet of those who had no choice but to walk. You walked it with a limp that had become your second name, a rhythmic thud against the earth that marked the distance between your youth and your grave. You were Elias, fifty-two years old, the herbalist, and you carried a satchel of dried roots...
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