The Wistful Campus
The fog in Aethelgard did not roll in; it seeped up from the cobblestones like a sickly breath, swallowing the spires of the Citadel until only the topmost gables remained visible against the bruised sky. Elias Thorne adjusted the strap of his pack, his fingers brushing the leather until it felt warm under his touch, a small comfort in the damp chill. He was thirty years old, a sergeant with a...
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