The Wistful Campus
The fire did not begin as a spark, but as a slow, inevitable surrender of the wood to the air, a consuming silence that swallowed the great hall of the Citadel before the first scream tore through the night. You are standing in the shadows of the gallery, watching the chandeliers swing like pendulums of molten gold, their glass prisms catching the orange fury below and scattering it across the...
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