The Pale Tale
The rifle was heavy. It smelled of oil and old sweat. Kael held it tight. His knuckles were white. The air in the bunker was thin. It tasted of rust. He waited. The silence was loud. It pressed against his eardrums. The war had ended three days ago. The flags were down. The men were gone. Only the machinery remained. It hummed in the dark. A low, electric thrum. It vibrated in his bones. He was...
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