The Wistful Campus
The bell did not ring. It shattered. The sound was not a chime but a scream of iron, a jagged tear in the air that cut across the quad. Margaret Holloway stood still. She felt the vibration in her teeth. Around her, the students froze. They were young. They were soft. They looked at her with wide, wet eyes. She was the Keeper of the Word. She held the staff. It was made of oak. It was old. The...
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