The Pale Circus

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2026-08-20 12:08:45 -

The Pale Circus

The wind bit. Sharp. Cold. It cut through my wool. It found the gaps in my armor. It whispered in my ear. It spoke of home. It spoke of dust. I walked on. The road was hard. The stones were cold. My boots hurt. I did not stop. I never stop. We rode into the valley. The air was thick. It smelled of rot. It smelled of old blood. The castle stood ahead. Black stone. Tall walls. No windows. Just...

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