The Distant Legend
The dream was always the same. A field of white poppies stretching to the horizon, but the flowers were not alive. They were brittle, their petals crusted with dust and old blood. In the center stood a figure, small and gray, reaching up. When Elias woke, the smell of sulfur and wet earth clung to the back of his throat. He lay in his narrow cot in the barracks, the ceiling a patchwork of damp...
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