The Faded Paradox
The count was simple, though the mud made it difficult. Elias Thorne had three sacks of flour to weigh, two buckets of water to fetch, and one dying son to save, and the order of these tasks had been decided by the Commander’s voice an hour before, cutting through the smell of roasting goat and stale beer that hung heavy in the encampment air. He was forty-two, a sergeant with twenty years of...
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