The Pale Circus
The iron gate screamed against its rusted hinges as Elias Vane drove his cart through the mud of the valley floor, the sound a jagged tear in the silence of the industrial dawn. He was not a man accustomed to the quiet of the countryside, but to the rhythmic, oppressive hum of the foundries in Blackwood, where the air tasted of sulfur and the light was always the color of bruised plums. Here,...
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