The Pale Letter
Thorne, keep your head down, you fool, or the next shell will take it off. The voice was a rasp in the mud, a command that carried no heat, only the flat exhaustion of a man who had forgotten how to be angry. Elias Thorne did not look up. He pressed his back against the wet clay of the trench wall, the cold seeping through his wool tunic until it felt like a second skin, tight and shrinking. He...
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