The Wistful Grid
The iron biter was still in my shoulder when I wrote this, the blood soaking through the linen of my tunic and turning the white fabric into a map of my own ruin, for I am Thomas of the Watch, or I was, until the moment the gong sounded and the order came to break the seal of the old law, and I did it, I did it with the cold precision of a man who has forgotten how to feel anything but the duty...
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