The Pale Meridian
Hale. The name came from the other side of the tent canvas, muffled by the wet wool of Major Vance’s greatcoat and the relentless drumming of the rain against the canvas. It was not a shout, but a command delivered with the flat, tired weight of a man who had been shouting all day. You pulled your collar up, the dampness of the pass seeping into your bones, a cold that had nothing to do with...
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