The Wistful Campus
The iron gate groaned, a low, tectonic shudder that vibrated through the soles of Sir Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood at the threshold of the Blackwood Academy, the air thick with the scent of wet slate and ancient, decaying oak. It was not a school of learning, in any sense his father had intended, but a crucible. A place where the raw ore of youth was hammered into the shape of the state....
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