The Faded Alibi
The mud of the border outpost was not merely wet; it was a living, sucking thing that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots with the tenacity of a starving dog. He stood alone in the trench, the rain drumming a relentless, hollow rhythm against the earth above him, and in his hand he held the silver locket. It was cracked down the middle, a jagged fissure running through the delicate engraving of...
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