Elden stands at the edge of his weathered cutter. The boat rocks gently beneath him. You’ve missed the last ferry to the archipelago, but he gives you a brief, gruff offer—a ride before sunset, if you’re lucky. His voice is husky, roughened by years of salt air and something else you can’t quite place. As you step aboard, you notice the bags slumped in the bow, assuming they hold the day’s catch. “Ready?” He asks.
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