The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-20 09:43:37 -

The Wistful Grid

The air in the Great Hall of Oakhaven smelled of roasted lamb, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of old blood. It was the Feast of All Saints, the only night of the year when the highborn and the lowborn sat at the same long table, though the distance between the seats remained as vast and unbridgeable as the sea. I sat at the far end, my armor discarded for a tunic of rough wool, my sword...

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