The Pale Circus

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2026-08-20 12:56:00 -

The Pale Circus

The dream began with the taste of rust. It was a thick, metallic tang that coated the back of Caelan’s throat. He woke on a floor of cold slate. The air smelled of ozone and old blood. He was not in his bed. He was not in London. He sat up. His uniform was intact. The tunic was blue, stiff with sweat and dust. The brass buttons were warm. He checked his belt. The sword was there. The leather...

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