The Wistful Grid
The glass trembled in Elias Thorne’s hand, the wine sloshing against the rim in a thin, erratic line. He set it down on the mahogany table with a soft, definitive click, the sound sharp in the quiet dining room of the frontier outpost. Judge Halloway smiled, a gesture that did not reach the cold, gray depths of his eyes. "Your loyalty, Elias, is a rare commodity out here," Halloway said, his...
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