The Wistful Mountain
The wind did not blow so much as it scraped, a relentless, rusted blade dragging across the high, barren peaks of the northern range where the air was thin enough to make the lungs ache with a sweet, burning thirst. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots digging into the loose shale, his fingers white-knuckled around the grip of his service revolver, not because he...
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