The Wistful Ashes
The bell did not ring. It shattered. I stood in the center of the Great Hall, my hands still raised as if to catch the falling shards of the world. The sound was not a ring, but a scream of iron tearing itself apart, a shriek that vibrated in the marrow of my bones. Dust motes danced in the sudden, terrible silence that followed, suspended in shafts of light that cut through the broken roof...
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