The Pale Circus

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2026-08-19 21:03:50 -

The Pale Circus

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain woven from the weeping willows that lined the approach to the Abbey of St. Jude. It was a damp, clinging cold that settled into the bones, the kind that had no mercy for the old or the weary. Sir Thomas Bradshaw stood at the gate, his back to the crumbling stone, watching the mud churn beneath the hooves of the last horse. He...

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