The Wistful Throne
The notice was printed on cheap, yellowed stock, the ink smudged where a thumb had pressed too hard. It read: "REINFORCEMENTS DUE 0400. HOLD POSITION. COMMAND." Gladys Barlow held the paper until the edges cut into her calloused palm, the weight of it negligible compared to the rifle stock pressed into her shoulder, a slab of cold wood that had become an extension of her own bone. She was...
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