The Pale Door
The snow on the northern frontier did not fall; it hung, a suspended grey veil that erased the horizon and swallowed the sound of the world. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the supply depot, his breath pluming in short, ragged bursts against the cold. He was forty-two, though the stiffness in his left knee and the dull ache in his shoulder made him feel as if he had lived three...
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