The Wistful Mountain
The mud in the trench did not merely cling to Elias Thorne’s boots; it consumed them, a cold, wet weight that seemed to anchor his body to the bottom of the world as he stood over the broken form of the man he had just killed. Elias, a captain of forty years with a face carved by wind and duty, looked down at the enemy soldier, whose knee had been shattered by the butt of his rifle in a brutal,...
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