The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-20 03:24:15 -

The Wistful Grid

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and stale wine. Colonel Elias Thorne stood by the fireplace. The fire crackled. It died. He watched the embers turn to ash. Gray. Cold. Inert. Across the room, General Marcus Vane raised his glass. The crystal caught the light. A sharp flare. Vane spoke. His voice was smooth. Like oil on water. "Another year," Vane said. He looked at Elias. Elias...

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