The Distant Temple
The stain is not rust, though it smells of iron and old blood, and it has soaked into the wool of your greatcoat so deeply that it has become part of the fabric, a dark, creeping map of your service. You wake in the narrow cot of your quarters with the taste of snow on your tongue, a phantom cold that lingers long after the window has been closed against the damp November chill of 1913. For...
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