The Golden Ritual
The mud is thick and red, clinging to the soles of your boots like the blood of a slaughtered calf, and the air in the trench is so dense with the smell of wet wool and old iron that you can taste it on the back of your teeth. You are not fighting men anymore; you are fighting the weight of the earth itself, the oppressive, suffocating silence of the cellar below the village of Saint-Célestin,...
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