The Golden Myth
Thorne. Get up, Thorne, before the next shell takes your head off. The voice belonged to Miller, a private with a stutter that had worsened since the Somme. He hauled Elias out of the trench’s muddy floor, his hands slick with a mixture of rain and something darker. Elias was thirty-two, a historian by trade, and he was currently clutching a leather-bound ledger to his chest with a desperation...
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