The Faded Paradox
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey slate over the moor, smelling of wet iron and the rot of peat, while Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the treeline, his hand resting on the cold brass of his revolver, feeling the familiar, jagged ache in his left knee that the damp air had begun to work into his bones, a pain so specific and personal it seemed to...
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