The Golden Oath
The soup was cold, and the tin cup in Elias’s hand had developed a hairline fracture that leaked a steady, rhythmic drip onto the muddy floor of the trench. "Is that the wind, Sergeant?" asked young Miller, his face pale beneath the grime, his eyes fixed on the table where the cutlery was vibrating against the plates. Elias did not look up. He stared at the fracture in the cup, watching the...
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