The Wistful Saga
The mud at the breach was black and sucking, a cold weight that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots as he stood in the gap where the wall had crumbled. He was thirty-two, a sergeant with a scarred jaw and hands that shook only when he thought of the debt his brother owed the Crown, a sum that had grown like a tumor in the belly of their family. His want was singular and desperate: a pardon, a piece...
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