The Wistful Grid
The ink was still wet on the parchment, a dark, trembling pool that Elias Ashworth stared at with the hollow, glazed focus of a man who has not slept in three days, his fingers stained black to the second knuckle, the cold damp of the fortress cellar rising through the stone floor to chill the marrow of his bones. He had been dreaming again, that recurring, viscous nightmare where he reaches...
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