The Golden Harbor
The fog in Oakhaven does not rise; it seeps, a cold, grey breath that tastes of iron and old rot, clinging to the cobblestones of the High Street and settling into the joints of the bone. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years of age, and your hands are stained with the ink of a man who has spent too long in the shadows of the Guild Hall, a disgraced archivist whose name is spoken only in...
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