The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The name hung in the fog, sharp as a blade. Elias did not look up. He was counting the crates on the dock, his breath pluming white in the cold air of Oakhaven. The mist here was thick, a physical thing that pressed against the skin like wet wool. It smelled of brine and rot, of old iron and something sweeter, like overripe fruit left in the sun. Elias knew this smell. It was the smell...
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