The Wistful Campus
The morning mist clung to the stone walls of the Citadel, thick and damp, smelling of wet slate and old iron. I stood at my post on the ramparts, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword, the cold steel biting into my palm. Below, the courtyard was a gray void, silent save for the distant creak of the drawbridge chains. This was the third day since the order came down. The High Command had...
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