The Wistful Grid
The ledger shows three days of rations, twelve miles of frozen track, and one seal of wax that must reach Oakhaven before the frost takes the last of the grain. I am Thomas Bradshaw, warden of the northern border, and I have carried this duty for nine years without a single mark against my name. The King’s seal is heavy in my satchel, a cold weight against my hip, and the road ahead is a white...
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