The Wistful Campus
The chisel bit into the granite with a sound like a bone snapping. I was Sagal Abebe, thirty-two, and my hands were already slick with sweat and the grey dust of the Whispering Stone. The mist in Zay was thick that morning, hanging low over the river locks, but the sun had finally broken through after nine days of rain, drying the wet thatched roofs of the market. I needed to restore the...
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