The Distant Journey
The knee locked with a sound like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot. Elias Thorne sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that rattled in his chest. The pain was not a dull ache but a white, blinding spike that drove through his left leg, anchoring him to the sterile tiles of the Northern Garrison. He was fifty-two years old, and for the first time...
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