The Pale Dance
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a thick, gray curtain that blurs the sharp edges of the world into a soft, indifferent smear, and you stand in the center of the Great Hall, your boots soaking through the heavy wool of your trousers, the dampness climbing up your legs like a cold tide, a slow and inevitable drowning that you have chosen to accept rather than fight. The...
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