The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-20 11:47:26 -

The Wistful Grid

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and the heavy, cloying scent of beeswax candles that had burned down to their nubs, leaving the air thick with a haze that seemed to suspend time itself in a viscous, amber gloom. Sir Julian Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a goblet of wine that had turned warm and flat in the stagnant heat of the...

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