The Pale Fracture
The mud of Acre did not just soak; it swallowed. Sergeant Elias Thorne felt the cold suction pull at his boots, a physical weight that mirrored the heavy, iron-banded cloak clutched tight against his chest. It was the year 1402, and the air tasted of ash and old blood, thick with the low, humming murmur that had plagued the city for weeks. Elias was thirty-four, a man carved from duty and...
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