The Wistful Ashes
The mud of the trench did not merely soak into the leather of Silas Thorne’s boots but seemed to possess a will of its own, a viscous, hungry entity that sought to drag him down into the black, indifferent earth where the names of the dead were already being erased by the slow, patient work of decay and rot. He stood, or rather he remained suspended in a state of perpetual exhaustion that had...
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