The Distant Wound
The stone arch in the dream was always wet. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of rust and river silt in his mouth, his hands gripping the headboard until the knuckles turned white. He was thirty-four years old, a Sergeant in the Border Preservation Corps, and his body ached with the phantom weight of a duty he had technically surrendered six months ago. The room in Oakhaven smelled of damp wool...
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