The Golden Echoes
The rain hammered the corrugated iron roof of Barrack 4, a rhythmic, metallic drumming that drowned out the coughs of the men inside. Elias Thorne sat on his bunk, the damp wool of his uniform sticking to his back. He rubbed his thumb over the brass button in his pocket. It was warm from his body heat, a small, hard circle of proof. The button belonged to his father’s tunic, a relic from a war...
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