The Wistful Grid
Act I Could a man be erased before he was even dead? Dawit Tesfaye asked the question to the empty room, his voice cracking against the plaster walls of the scriptorium, a place that smelled of damp lime and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe of no particular renown, and the winter solstice was four days away. The royal ledger sat on the desk before him, a...
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