The Faded Shield
The mud is thick. It sucks at your boots with a wet, heavy sound, like a mouth trying to swallow you whole. You do not look down. You look forward. The sky is a bruised purple, swollen and low, pressing against the jagged teeth of the black pines. You are running. Your lungs burn. The air tastes of iron and ozone. You are not alone. You are part of the machine, a single cog in the grinding...
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