The Golden Crossing
The letter lay on the wet linoleum of the command tent, its edges curling away from the mud like dead leaves, the ink smudged where a drop of rain had fallen through the canvas roof, and Sergeant Elias Thorne stared at it with a hunger that felt less like ambition and more like a physical starvation, a hollow ache in his gut that no amount of coffee or cold rations could fill. He was...
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