The Golden Maze
The mud beneath Sir Alistair’s boots was cold, a slurry of earth and blood that sucked at his feet with a wet, sucking sound as he pressed forward into the trench. The air smelled of iron and rot, a thick, cloying stench that coated the back of his throat and made it difficult to draw a full breath. He was not fighting for glory, nor for the King’s banner that snapped weakly in the gray wind...
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