The Faded Quadrant
The mud on the hillside was thick, a churning brown paste that sucked at Thomas’s boots with a wet, desperate grip. He did not look back. He could hear the crash of the militia’s retreat, the splintering of wood, the sharp, metallic taste of fear that hung in the cold November air. Thomas pulled the heavy wool cloak tighter around his shoulders. It smelled of damp horse and old blood. It was...
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