The Wistful Campus
The frost has not yet settled on the windowpanes of the manor, but the cold has already crept into the marrow of the house, a pervasive chill that seems to emanate from the very stones rather than the winter air outside, and you stand in the center of the grand hall, holding the shattered pieces of the blue glass orb that your mother kept by the hearth, feeling the jagged edges bite into your...
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