The Wistful Grid
The letter sat on the wooden desk, the ink still damp and black as a bruise, and Thomas Ashworth stared at the single word written in his own hand, a word that had once meant safety but now felt like a stone in his throat. He was sitting in the round tower of the keep, a place that did not exist in any map of the realm but had appeared to him in the fog three days prior, a place where the air...
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