The Pale Altar
The mud of the Somme had a specific weight, a dense, sucking gravity that measured itself in inches of sinking and the sharp, grinding protest of bone on bone, and Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and wearing a sergeant’s stripes that felt like a second skin stitched too tight, counted the steps he could take before his left knee locked up in the dark. He was holding a rusted iron buckle, torn...
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