The Wistful Atlas
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell on the blackened earth of the valley, turning the mud into a sucking pit that held boots and bones alike. Thomas Bradshaw walked at the head of the column. He was a large man, his shoulders broad enough to block out the gray sky, but his steps were slow. Heavy. The leather of his armor creaked with a sound like dry wood snapping. Behind him, the...
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