The Wistful Throne
The mud at the Somme did not merely coat Elias Thorne; it consumed him. At forty-five, his knees screamed with a pain that felt less like injury and more like the slow rusting of iron, a physical manifestation of the time he had spent waiting for orders that never came. He was a Sergeant, a title that had once meant command and respect, but now it meant only that he was the one who had to stay...
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