The Pale Circus
The iron gate of the Citadel of Aethelgard groaned not with the weight of the iron itself, but with the accumulated sighs of a thousand years of silence, a sound that resonated in the marrow of Sir Cedric’s bones as he stood alone in the courtyard, the pale moonlight slicing through the high, arched windows like the blades of unseen daggers. He held the shattered remnants of the Royal Seal in...
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