The Wistful Saga
The coal dust in the barracks of the Ironclad Regiment was not merely dirt; it was a fine, grey sediment that worked its way into the weave of wool uniforms, the creases of skin, and the very lungs of the men who slept in the cramped, windowless rows of bunks. Elias Thorne sat on the edge of his cot, his hands wrapped around a brass compass, the metal cold against his palms, the glass face...
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