The Golden Master
The gold started at the knuckles, a dull, metallic ache that woke me from a dream where I was drowning in molten brass. I am Elias Thorne, Commander of the Northern Sector, and I have thirty days left of service before my pension vests, a sum of money that represents twenty years of standing in the snow and watching men die for a line drawn on a map that no longer exists. The rule is simple,...
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