The Pale Circus

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2026-08-19 17:06:34 -

The Pale Circus

"Thou art late," the Duke said, his voice a dry leaf skittering across stone. I stood in the antechamber, my hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier with each passing breath. The air smelled of beeswax and old blood. "Forgive me, my liege. The road was treacherous." It was a lie. The road had been smooth, paved with the gold of men who paid for silence. I had ridden fast, driven...

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