The Wistful Show
The ferry queue stretched along the mangrove shore, a line of mud-caked boots and silent faces waiting for the boat that carried grain south and debt north. The drone of the power station hummed in the ice field, a physical weight against the eardrums. Tovar Sarn stood at the end of the line, his hand buried deep in his coat pocket, clutching the vial of black sap. The sap was cold. It bit...
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