The Faded Chronicle
Thorne. The name was shouted by a private two feet away, a ragged, wet sound that cut through the rhythmic thumping of the distant guns. Elias Thorne did not look up. He was staring at the mud, specifically at the way it had begun to rise around his boots, not with the slow creep of a flood, but with the deliberate, sucking pull of a trap. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant in the Second...
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