The Golden Cellar
The mud of the trench does not merely cover you; it consumes you. It is a cold, sucking mouth that pulls at your boots, at the laces of your soul, drawing the warmth from your bones until you are nothing more than a ghost trapped in the clay. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you are holding the line. But there is no line anymore. The sky above is a bruised purple, pulsing with a light that...
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