The Pale Letter
The mud in the trench of St. Jude’s Bastion was not merely wet; it was a living thing, sucking at the boots of Sir Alistair Thorne with a tenacious, cold hunger. He stood amidst the churned earth, his breathing ragged, the taste of copper and old blood thick on his tongue. Around him, the city of Oakhaven lay in ruins, its spires broken like teeth in a shattered jaw, the sky above a bruised...
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