The Pale Bridge
The letter from the War Office lay on the wet stone, its ink running in brown rivulets that mimicked the rust bleeding from the arches of the Pale Bridge. Elias Thorne picked it up, the paper heavy with the damp of the Blackwater Valley, and read the words that stripped him of his rank, his pension, and his right to leave the post. It was not a dismissal, exactly, but a reassignment, a...
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