The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-18 12:45:18 -

The Wistful Grid

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pork and old wax. You sat at the head of the table. The iron grid on your left hand was warm. It had been warm for forty years. You touched the cold steel bars. The metal was worn smooth where your thumb had rubbed it for decades. A small, dull circle. A ghost in the iron. "Drink, Sir Aldric," said Lord Vane. He poured the wine. The liquid was dark, thick as...

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