The Golden Quest
The fog in Oria does not roll in; it settles, a heavy, damp wool that suffocates the cobblestones and turns the gas lamps into halos of sickly yellow, and you have been walking through it for three hours, your breath a white plume that vanishes before it reaches your face, carrying in your coat pocket the weight of a secret that feels less like a treasure and more like a stone in a shoe, a...
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