The Pale Circus
The fire took the roof of the old mill at dusk, turning the sky into a bruised purple that bled into the black water of the river. It was a beautiful, terrible thing, the way the flames licked at the timber with a hunger that felt almost personal. Elias Thorne stood on the muddy bank, his coat flapping in the wind that smelled of ash and wet wool, and watched the structure he had spent his life...
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