The Pale Circus
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of my coat and seeped into the joints of my knees. I stood on the wet cobblestones of Kingsbridge Square, the center of a city that had forgotten the taste of its own blood. My right hand, the one that had once held a rifle steady against the trembling wind of the Northern Exiles, now shook with a...
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