The Golden Myth
The mud in the trench was not wet, but thick, a grey paste that sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots with every step, as if the earth itself were trying to swallow him whole. He was forty-two years old, and his knees, once the sturdy hinges of a man who could run a mile without breaking stride, now ground against each other with a dry, painful rust. In his hands, the rifle felt impossibly heavy, the...
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