The Pale Circus
The air in the Grand Hall of the Sovereign’s Keep did not smell of incense or aged parchment, as one might expect of a place dedicated to the preservation of history, but rather of ozone and the metallic tang of high-voltage electricity, a scent that clung to the back of your throat with the persistence of a guilty conscience. You sat in the lower tier of the amphitheater, a position that...
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