The Wistful Mountain
The order was written in ink that had begun to bleed, the letters smearing into grey ghosts on the damp paper. Elias Thorne held the slip of parchment in his left hand, his fingers numb and stained with the black mud of the trench, while his right hand clutched a rusted iron buckle to his chest. He was thirty-four years old, a sergeant who had seen enough death to know the smell of it before he...
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