The Faded Masquerade
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the moorland into a slick, breathing entity of mud and rot. You walked through it, your boots sinking deep into the saturated peat, the weight of your service rifle slung across your back feeling less like a weapon and more like a dead limb you could not bring yourself to cut away. The year was 1914, though it felt...
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