The Pale Door
The mud on the ridge was black and slick, sucking at the boots of the men who held the line. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the front, his rifle raised, his breathing shallow and rhythmic. The air smelled of wet earth and cordite, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat. Below, in the valley, the lights of the ironworks burned with a steady, unnatural glow. It was not a fire that...
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