The Wistful Grid
"Did you hear that, Thomas? The stone is speaking again." I set down my quill and listened to the silence of the granary. The only sound was the dry rattle of grain shifting in the sacks, a sound like bones breaking in a slow, dry wind. We were in the third month of the siege, and the cold had moved into the bones of the keep, settling into the mortar, the wood, and the men. My duty was clear,...
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