The Wistful Grid
The feast of St. Jude’s was a thing of smoke and salted meat, a raucous testament to the endurance of the town of Oakhaven against the creeping teeth of winter. In the great hall of the Guild Hall, where the timber beams were blackened by a century of hearth fires, the air hung thick with the scent of roasted venison and spilled ale. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long table, his...
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