The Pale Banner
The first thing Elias Thorne counted was the hours, twelve of them, measured not by the sun but by the steady, grinding ache in his left knee, a pain that had become as familiar and reliable as his own heartbeat. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been mapped by the same winds that had erased the towns he used to draw, and his hands, once steady enough to trace the veins of rivers on...
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