The fog that rolled into the harbor of Silver-Water that evening was unnatural—a thick, clammy, greenish-white mist that smelled of rotten kelp, sulfur, and stagnant ocean brine. It crept across the water like a living serpent, swallowing the hulls of the anchored fishing vessels and deadening every sound until even the cry of gulls was silenced. Down on the lower stone piers of the South Quay, Princess Regent Nyra and…
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