The Wistful Grid
"Take the boy," Lord Vane said, his voice flat as a whetstone. Elias Thorne did not move. He stood in the courtyard of Vane’s manor, the mud of the lane still caking the soles of his boots, and looked at the young man bound by the hands of two guards. The year was 1342, and the air in the valley hung thick with the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke. Elias was thirty-two, a sergeant of the...
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