The Golden Crossing
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in; it seeps up from the river, a thick, golden suspension that smells of wet iron and old coins. You are Elias Thorne, a border warden of thirty-four years, and you are tired of the way the mist clings to your wool coat, heavy and cold, like a shroud that refuses to let you go. You want the capital. You want the dry, sharp air of the city where the ledger is...
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