The Distant Wound
The rain in Ostra does not fall so much as it seeps, a persistent, gray dampness that settles into the bone and stays there. I am writing this by the light of a single, flickering bulb in my quarters, the hum of the generator a low, constant drone that I have stopped hearing years ago. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am a Border Warden, a title that sounds more noble than the reality of...
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