The Wistful Mountain
The shrapnel did not sing as it pierced the shoulder of the air; it hissed, a wet, tearing sound that seemed to strip the skin off the silence of the valley. Captain Elias Thorne lay in the trench, the mud of the front line cold against his cheek, listening to the rhythm of his own heartbeat sync with the distant, grinding artillery. He was a man built for order, for the precise geometry of...
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