The Distant Threshold
The mud of the border camp sucked at Thorne’s boots with the patience of a debt collector, pulling the leather down into the wet earth as he stood before the officers’ mess, his knuckles white around the hilt of his service revolver. The air smelled of wet wool, stale pipe tobacco, and the coppery tang of blood that had not yet been washed from the trench line. He was here to secure his...
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