The Distant Temple
The form lay on the desk, a single sheet of gray paper stamped with the regimental seal, its ink still wet and smelling of iron. Elias Thorne held the pen, the nib scratching against the fiber, signing his name with a hand that trembled less than he feared it would. He was forty years old, a sergeant in the Third Valley Guard, a unit tasked not with fighting men but with managing the output of...
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