The Distant Metropolis
The map was damp, the ink of the contour lines bleeding into a soft, brown blur that smeared under Sergeant Elias Thorne’s thumb. He held it open in the trench, the paper slick with rain and the grease of his own palms, the edges soft and worn from being folded and unfolded too many times in the last three days. Around him, the mud sucked at the boots of his men, a thick, sucking sound that...
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