The Distant Summer
The mud was not just wet; it was alive. It pulled at the boots of Sergeant Elias Thorne with a tenacious, sucking grip that felt less like earth and more like the hand of a dying god trying to hold him back. He did not look up. To look up was to see the sky, and the sky was empty, and the emptiness was worse than the dirt. Elias walked. The wind in the highland moors was a physical thing, a...
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