The Wistful Saga
The mud of the outpost at Blackwood Ridge did not freeze; it rotted. Elias Thorne stood in it, his boots sinking to the ankles, and watched the prisoner’s face blur through the steam rising from his own breath. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant in the Border Guard, and he wanted only to survive the winter and keep his commission. But his hands shook. It was not the cold. It was the White...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews