The Golden Ritual
The count of the days was a mechanical thing, a tally kept in the grooves of the gun stock where the wood had worn smooth from the friction of Thorne’s palm. Fourteen days since the capture. Fourteen days of snow, of the grinding ice under the boots, of the weight of the man behind him. Sergeant Elias Thorne, forty-two years old with twenty-two in the service, had a concrete want: to deliver...
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