The Faded Chronicle
The mud of the Somme weighed four pounds per square inch, a fact Elias Thorne knew because he had counted the boots of the men who sank into it. He was thirty-two, a sergeant with a jaw like a closed fist and a pocket that held a secret heavier than his rifle. It was November, 1918, and the air smelled of wet iron and rotting turnips, a scent that had seeped into the weave of his tunic until he...
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