The Wistful Silence
The mud on your boots is the same color as the dried blood on your tunic, a thick, rusted brown that refuses to scrub off no matter how vigorously you scour it against the rough stone of the pass. You are moving north, toward the jagged teeth of the mountains, and the wind is a physical weight, pressing against your chest like a hand seeking to stop your heart. You are a soldier, or at least...
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