The Pale Dance
The mud in the trench did not merely cling to Elias Thorne’s boots; it consumed them, a thick, black slurry that seemed to have its own malice, pulling at his ankles with the tenacity of a drowning man’s grip. He was not supposed to be here, not in the sense that his orders had been to hold the line, but in the deeper, more corrosive sense that his soul had been left miles back in the quiet,...
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