The Golden Harbor
Act I Vazgen Popescu’s hands trembled as he scraped the brine from the hull of the patrol skiff, the motion a dry, rattling cough that lived in his chest and his wrists. The fog on the Swahili coast was a physical thing, a grey wall that choked the oak savanna parkland and made the port useless, turning the air into something heavy and wet that coated the tongue. He wiped his forehead, leaving...
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