The Distant Cartograph
The fog did not roll in from the sea or rise from the ground; it simply existed, a cold, static presence that smelled of wet chalk and old blood, and it was in this gray void that Sergeant Elias Thorne knelt, his knees sinking into the sucking clay of the Somme, his compass needle spinning wildly as he attempted to fix the coordinates of a retreat route that his unit would need to survive the...
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