The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood, bearing the crest of the High Constabulary, a geometric grid of interlocking iron bars that seemed to vibrate against the parchment even in the stillness of the tower room. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of his elbows, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced...
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