The Wistful Grid
The parchment is heavy, heavier than it looks, and the wax seal is still soft enough to leave a thumbprint. You hold it in your left hand, the one that trembles, while the right hand rests on the pommel of your sword. Outside the window, the roosters are screaming at the dawn, a jagged sound that cuts through the damp cold of the keep. You are Elias, Royal Guard, thirty-two years old, and you...
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