The Wistful Throne
The count was simple. Three hundred and twelve rounds in the box. Three hundred and twelve lives, if you did the math the way the quartermaster did it, ignoring the fact that most of the men holding those rifles would be dead before the sun cleared the ridge. Elias Thorne sat in the mud, his boots sinking into the slurry with a wet, sucking sound that was the only clock the war kept. He wiped...
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