The Distant Clue
The fog in Oakhaven does not drift; it presses against the skin like a damp, heavy hand, a constant reminder that the city is older than the stone and hungrier than the men who walk its cobblestones. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years of age, and for thirty of those years you have worn the ceremonial wool coat that the Guild of Wardens issued to you the night they pinned the badge of a night...
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