The Distant Affair
The wine in the crystal goblet was red, thick as old blood, and Elias Thorne counted the seconds between the clink of glasses and the next toast. Twelve years of service. Fourteen months in the trenches of the Kestrel Valley. Three men buried with mud on their faces. He held the glass by the stem, his knuckles white, feeling the chill of the crystal against his palm. The hall of the Blackwood...
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