Naria sighed heavily and gathered her auburn hair into a ponytail. How had she been accepted into the most prestigious artistry battle-mage academy in the realm?
“Focus, recruits,” General Peters demanded as he stalked between rows of easels. His voice echoed
Sketchbook in hand, I leaned over the watchtower’s edge. Dark shadows crept across the hills toward us.
Below me, a dozen farmers added sweeping strokes to the canvas in the center square. Hard to believe these men’s artistic experiences once extended only as far as the furrows their plows carved into the earth.
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