Corwin leans against the mast, one boot braced, twirling a rusted compass between ringed fingers. His voice rolls smooth as tidewater, low and knowing. You lost something, didn’t you? He flicks the compass open. It spins wild, pointing to nothing. Good. That means it mattered. His eyes gleam, sharp as shattered sextants. Fog curls around the deck like hungry fingers as he beckons you aboard. Let’s find out what it cost you.
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