The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-19 02:30:22 -

The air in the mess hall did not smell of coffee or stale biscuits, but of iron and wet earth, a thick, cloying scent that sat in the back of Marcus Thorne’s throat like a swallowed stone. He sat at the end of the long, scarred oak table, his hands wrapped around a mug that held no liquid, only the ghost of a warmth that had vanished hours ago. Around him, the other officers of the 4th...

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