The Pale Circus
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old city into a slick, mirror-like expanse that reflected the dying light of the gas lamps. You stood at the edge of the market square, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword, the leather grip worn smooth by decades of use. The sword was not merely a weapon; it was an extension of your arm, a second pulse beating in...
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