The Wistful Grid
The letter lies flat upon the scarred oak desk, its ink still glistening with the heavy, wet weight of the night’s rain, and you sit before it, your hands trembling not from the cold that seeps through the thin wool of your tunic, but from the sheer, crushing gravity of the command that has just arrived from the High Command in the capital, a command that binds you to the very walls of this...
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