The Distant Crown
The mud in the trench was thick and black, sucking at the boots of every man who moved. Elenor Fairchild gripped her rifle, her knuckles white, her left hand trembling against the wet earth. She was thirty years old, older than most of the men in her squad, and she had not slept in three days. The artillery fire had been constant for hours, a rhythmic tearing of the sky that turned the air into...
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