The Distant Crown
The mud sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, rhythmic pull that felt less like earth and more like a living thing trying to digest him. His rifle jammed, the bolt stuck in the half-cycled position, and he knew with a cold certainty that he would die in this ditch before the sun came up. The enemy was coming. He could hear the boots of the opposing line, a distant, mechanical thudding that...
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