The Wistful Voyage
The heat in the hold of *The Gilded Cage* was a physical weight, pressing down on Elias Thorne’s shoulders like a wet wool blanket. He stood before the iron bars that separated the crew’s quarters from the prisoner’s pen, his knuckles white where they gripped the rusted metal. The air smelled of brine, rot, and the sweet, cloying scent of sickness that had begun to permeate the ship three days...
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