The Wistful Campus
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the manicured lawns of the Academy into a slurry of mud and broken stems, and you stood in the center of the Great Hall, your hands raw and trembling, the leather of your gloves worn thin to a translucent, brittle paper over the knuckles. You were a soldier of the mind, a warrior in the arena of debate, your armor...
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