The Wistful Silence
The saw blade bit into the heartwood with a shriek that tore the air, a sound like a nail being pulled from a coffin. Elias Vance, thirty-four and hollowed out by the years since the border, stood in the center of the square with his back to the ancient oak, his hands raised not in surrender but in a rigid, defensive posture that had served him well in the mud of the Ardennes. The municipal...
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