The Wistful Grid
The letter lay on the oak desk, its edges fraying like the hem of a worn coat. It was written in ink that had dried to a dull brown, the script cramped and urgent. Sir Thomas Vane held it in his gloved hands, the leather creaking softly in the cold air of the war room. Outside, the wind battered the stone walls of the keep, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to echo the pulse in his temples. He...
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