The Wistful Skyline
The fire started in the roof of the Hall of Records, a low, creeping thing that smelled of old dust and wet oak. By the time the first scream pierced the morning air, I was already there, standing in the shadow of the great stone archway, my satchel heavy with my thesis and my life’s work. The sky above the city of Aldenmere was a bruised purple, heavy with the threat of rain that never came....
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