The Golden Myth
The mud in the valley was thick with iron and blood, a slurry that clung to the boots of the men like a second skin. Thomas Bradshaw did not look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the jagged line of the horizon, where the smoke from the burning farmsteads twisted into shapes that looked too much like fingers pointing at the sky. His hands, caked in grime and the dark residue of the enemy’s armor,...
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