The Golden Oath
Thorne. The word was not a question. It was a summons, stripped of all courtesy, spat by the wind off the ridge. Elias Thorne did not turn. He kept his hands on the wet stone, feeling the grit of the mortar under his fingernails. He was thirty-four years old, a sergeant in the border patrol, and he was alone in the mud. The barracks had collapsed two days prior, a structural failure that the...
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