The Wistful Witness
The mud on your boots is black and caked thick, a testament to the three days you have spent digging through the trench line, and the air tastes of iron and wet wool. You are Thomas Ashworth, a man who once measured the worth of a life in the weight of gold bars, but now your hands are cracked and bleeding, and your mind is a chaotic storm of static. The war has stripped you of your title, your...
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