The Faded Frequency
The chisel in my hand has slipped three times today, and the blood on the stone is mine, a dark, rusty stain that mixes with the grit of the mortar I am trying to remove. I am Sergeant Elias Thorne, formerly of the 4th Royal Garrison, and I am writing this by the light of a tallow stub that burns down to the wick, the smoke stinging my eyes until they water and blur the rough-hewn walls of this...
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