The Wistful Cipher
The mud sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, tearing sound, pulling him three inches backward with every step he tried to take forward. He gripped the railing of the trench with his right hand, his knuckles white, while his left arm hung useless and heavy against his side, the bone in his forearm protruding through the torn sleeve of his uniform in a jagged, pale spike. The smell of...
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