The Pale Circus
The rain fell upon the city of New Albion not as water, but as a grey ash that settled into the crevices of the cobblestones and the hollows of the eyes, turning the world into a monochrome sketch of its former self. It was the winter of 1914, the year the old world cracked open like a ripe fruit spilling its bitter seeds onto the floor, and the air tasted of coal smoke and impending doom. In...
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