The Pale Tale
In the mud of the Flanders sector, a rusted tin cup sat in Elias Thorne’s hands, the condensation inside it cold as the November air. He held it steady, though his fingers trembled with a violence that had nothing to do with the temperature, a visceral, primal need to keep the object from shattering that mirrored the fragility of the life he was trying to preserve. Behind him, the trench wall...
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