The Wistful Skyline
The mud was thick and tasted of iron and old rain as Marcus Thorne drove his shoulder against the chest of the man who wore the grey uniform, the fabric tearing with a sound like a dry leaf crumbling underfoot, and the world around them dissolved into a swirling vortex of sleet and shadow where the line between the enemy and the ally had long since blurred into a meaningless smear of red and...
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