The Wistful Campus
The candlelight trembles against the stone, casting long, jagged shadows that dance like the fingers of the dead. You are Elias, twenty-four, and your stomach is a hollow drum beating against your ribs. You stand at the edge of the Headmaster’s table, a ghost in a threadbare coat, watching the feast unfold. The air is thick with the smell of roasted venison, spiced wine, and the musk of old...
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