The Wistful Grid
10th October. The rain here does not fall so much as it hangs, a grey curtain that blurs the horizon until the sea and the sky are indistinguishable, a single, churning mass of slate and foam. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I am alone in this cottage at the edge of the world, surrounded by the damp rot of the coast and the silent, bleeding truth of the *Aethelgard*. For three...
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