The Pale Circus
The iron taste of blood is the first thing you learn to ignore, a metallic coin stuck in the back of your throat that never quite melts. You are mid-stride, your boots caked in the red mud of the riverbank, when the second arrow strikes the air inches from your ear. It is a hot, humming thing, a whisper of death that you have heard a thousand times before in this long, grey war. You do not look...
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