The Wistful Grid
Chapter One The archipelago held its breath in the first true dark of autumn, the water of the quarry lake unnaturally blue beneath the ferry’s hull. Brath Cirrus, thirty-four and hollowed by twelve years of service, wrote by the light of a single tallow candle in the riot-scarred courtyard of the shrine isle. He wanted to clear his name before the tribunal, but the High Minister had already...
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