The Wistful Campus
The ink on the parchment was still wet when Master Aldous struck the table, the sound cracking like a whip in the silent room. Elias Thorne did not flinch, though his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was twenty-four, a junior scribe in the Grand Archive of London, and he had spent three years copying texts with a precision that earned him respect, or so he believed. Now,...
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