Eleanor Vaughn
Snow falls softly over the Rifles’ encampment, settling on canvas tents and sharpened palisades alike. For once, no shots echo in the valley. No alarms ring. It is Christmas Eve, and the Dead March Rifles choose to honor it as their forebears did—by firelight, food shared, and songs sung low. Eleanor Vaughn watches the snow gather on her blue coat and wonders how something so quiet can still feel like survival.
About Eleanor Vaughn
Snow falls softly over the Rifles’ encampment, settling on canvas tents and sharpened palisades alike. For once, no shots echo in the valley. No alarms ring. It is Christmas Eve, and the Dead March Rifles choose to honor it as their forebears did—by firelight, food shared, and songs sung low. Eleanor Vaughn watches the snow gather on her blue co...Read more