The Faded Quadrant
The fog in Oakhaven was not merely weather; it was a physical weight, a damp wool blanket pressed against the skin that smelled of rotting peat and old stone. Elias Thorne walked through it, his boots sinking into the mud of the cobblestone lane, the forged letter of appointment tucked tight against his ribs like a second heartbeat. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been worn smooth by the...
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