The Pale Mist
The mud of the border skirmish was not merely wet; it was a living thing, sucking at Elias Thorne’s boots with a tenacity that mirrored the weight of his own failing body. At forty-two, Sergeant Elias felt the ache in his knees as a constant, dull percussion, a reminder that the quiet retirement he had promised his ailing wife, Martha, was slipping away with every inch of ground he held. He...
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