The Faded Quadrant
The mud of the fortress courtyard sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots as he gripped the shattered quadrant of his father’s compass, the glass cracked down the center, the brass cold against his palm. He was thirty-two, a sergeant in the Duke’s guard, and he wanted only to hold the gate, to prove that his loyalty was not merely a habit but a fortress of its own. The rebel army, a tide of brown and...
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