The Wistful Campus
The castle did not sleep, for it had no eyes to close, only windows that stared out with the blank, white persistence of cataracts. It sat atop the crag like a stone that had refused to roll, enduring the centuries with a stoicism that felt less like strength and more like a forgotten obligation. Sir Caelen stood at the threshold of the Great Hall, his hands heavy at his sides, feeling the damp...
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