The Distant Wound
The iron gate of the Citadel of Saint Jude groaned against its rusted hinges, a sound like the tearing of wet silk that reverberated through the marrow of Commander Elias Thorne’s legs as he marched his squad into the central courtyard, the air thick with the smell of ozone and ancient stone dust, a scent that had become indistinguishable from the metallic tang of his own blood after months of...
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