The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the sky, a violent, silver exhalation that turned the mud of the valley into a slick, breathing membrane of chaos. Sergeant Elias Thorne moved through the downpour with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man whose bones had been forged in the heat of a kilno that no longer existed, his tactical vest a second skin of damp Kevlar and synthetic...
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