The Distant Joke
The mud of the Fens did not merely stick to Elias Thorne’s boots; it consumed them, a heavy, sucking dark that mirrored the rotting logic of the war which had swallowed the northern counties, a conflict born not of ideology but of the simple, brutal hunger of the state to possess the bodies of its children, and as he hauled the heavy canvas sack over his shoulder, the weight of the stolen...
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