The Wistful Campus
The frost had not yet melted from the thatch of the Chapel of St. Jude, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of brimstone and wet wool. Elara stood before the altar, her hands pressed against the cold stone, her fingers trembling not from the chill, but from the weight of the silence that pressed against her eardrums. She was a woman of the old ways, a keeper of the invisible threads...
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