The Distant Temple
The mud was thick. It sucked at my boots with a wet, heavy sound. I held the crate. My hands were white. The crate was heavy. It smelled of salt and decay. I walked. The sky was gray. The rain was cold. It stung my face. I did not look up. I kept moving. The path was narrow. It cut through the forest. The trees were black. The branches were bare. I was a soldier. I had been a soldier for twenty...
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