The Faded Quadrant
The sledge runners shrieked against the packed snow, a sound like nails dragging across a chalkboard, and Colonel Vance did not bother to knock before he hauled himself up the icy steps of the watchtower, his breath hanging in the air between us in thick, white plumes that smelled of coal smoke and old wool. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border warden whose fingers have long...
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