The Golden Master
The mud of the trench is not merely dirt; it is a living thing, a cold, sucking mouth that has swallowed the boots of men who are now only ghosts, and you stand knee-deep in it, your uniform heavy with a rain that has fallen for three days without ceasing, a grey curtain that blurs the world into a single, indistinct smear of wet stone and despair. You are Edward Ashworth, or so the name on...
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