The Faded Chronicle
The rifle stock was slick with rain and old sweat, the wood darkened by twenty years of hands that were no longer there. Elias Thorne gripped it until the joints of his knuckles turned white, the barrel pointing at nothing but the grey, churning sky above the village square. Around him, the mud was deep, sucking at his boots with a wet, heavy pull that mirrored the drag on his chest. He could...
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