The Wistful Voyage
The brass needle did not point north. It pointed at Julian. Elias Thorne stood on the deck of the *HMS Sovereign*, the salt air biting his lungs, watching the compass in the chart room spin with a sick, deliberate hunger. It was 1912, and the Royal Navy was a machine of iron and hierarchy, and Elias, a sergeant in the Royal Marines with dirt still under his fingernails, was a stain on its...
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