The Pale Path
The thud of the artillery was not a sound so much as a vibration that traveled up through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots, settling in his teeth and rattling the delicate brass calipers of his theodolite. He adjusted the focus, his breath held in a tight, technical knot of concentration, while the dust from the shelling drifted down in a fine, grey sleet that coated the paper of his surveying...
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