The Wistful Campus
The iron gate of the Ashworth Academy did not creak so much as it groaned, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth, shaking the dust from the cobblestones in a fine, grey mist that clung to the ankles of the boy who stood before it. Thomas Whitmore, young and pale with a skin that held the translucent quality of parchment, watched the gate shudder in the...
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