The Pale Circus

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2026-08-18 09:06:16 -

The Pale Circus

The road into the capital was a ribbon of mud that clung to the wheels of the carriage, sucking at the horses’ hooves with a wet, desperate sound. It was a journey of three days, but to Sir Alistair Thorne, it felt like a single, unending breath held in a throat constricted by age. He sat in the corner of the vehicle, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword, though the metal was dull now,...

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