The Faded Chronicle
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the stone, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the air inside the garrison into a thick, wet soup of damp wool and old rust. Elias Thorne sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, the knuckles white and swollen with a fever that had gnawed at his bones for three weeks. He was forty-two, though the lines...
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