The Pale Circus

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2026-08-19 20:59:51 -

The Pale Circus

The ink is black. The parchment is white. Your hand trembles. You press the quill down. The tip scratches. It sounds like a bone breaking. You are in the hall. The air is cold. It smells of wax and old blood. The King sits on the high seat. He is young. He is cruel. He looks at you. You look at the paper. Write. You do not want to write. You want to stop. You want to throw the quill. You want...

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