The Pale Path
The dream was always the same, a jagged white line fractured across the dark, a path that crumbled under the weight of invisible boots. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of iron in his mouth, the thirty-year-old sergeant of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, his body rigid with the discipline of a man who had long since ceased to dream of anything but duty. It was the autumn of 1912, and the air...
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