The Wistful Grid
The ledger listed forty-three shards of obsidian, each no larger than a thumbnail, totaling a loss of six pounds and twelve shillings. Sergeant Elias Thorne counted them again on the rough table of the Blackwood estate, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the arithmetic. He was thirty-four years old, and he had served for twelve years, yet he had never felt so...
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