The Wistful Witness
The mud sucked at your boots with a wet, heavy pull, each step a small battle against the earth itself, and you hauled your body forward through the mist that clung to the hillsides like damp wool. Your right shoulder throbbed, a dull, persistent ache from the fall you’d taken an hour ago when the ground beneath you shifted without warning. You were Thomas, forty-two, a border constable with...
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