The Wistful Skyline
The mud of the Blackwood Pass did not merely stick to the boots of Sergeant Elias Thorne; it seemed to possess a gravitational pull, a heavy, cloying resistance that mirrored the slow, suffocating weight of the fog rolling down from the highlands. Thorne, a man of thirty-two years whose face had been carved by twelve years of service in the Iron Guard, stood with his rifle leveled, the barrel...
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