The Faded Quadrant
The mud of the trench did not simply wet the boots of Sergeant Elias Thorne; it devoured them. It was a cold, wet hunger that seeped through the leather, into the wool socks, and finally into the bone, a sensation so pervasive it had become indistinguishable from his own pulse. Above him, the sky was a bruised and swollen thing, a bruise of gray and violet that refused to break into light or...
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