The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-19 19:48:16 -

The Wistful Grid

The feast began at dusk, as it always did in the high tower, with the smell of roasting lamb and the sound of silverware clinking against bone china. Margaret sat at the head of the long oak table, her hands folded in her lap. They were steady. They had to be. Across from her, the King of Glass sat. He was not a man of flesh. He was a figure made of clear, cold substance, his face a smooth,...

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