The Pale Circus

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2026-08-19 22:31:39 -

The Pale Circus

You wake in the mud. Rain slicks your skin. The air tastes of iron. You are small. You are cold. A jar clutched in your left hand. Glass. It holds a paste. Red. Thick. It smells of copper and rot. You do not know who you are. You do not know where you are. But you know the jar. It is yours. It is your weapon. It is your prayer. The city rises around you. Stone. Grey. Ancient. Towers pierce the...

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