The Wistful Silence
The rain on the Kestrel Ridge did not fall so much as it hung, a grey, wet shroud that turned the frontier mud into a sucking, treacherous paste. Elias Thorne moved through it with the mechanical precision of a man who had forgotten how to feel anything other than duty, his boots sinking deep with every step, the weight of his service rifle a familiar anchor against his hip. He was thirty-four,...
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