The Pale Circus
The air in the Hall of Echoes tasted of copper and old rain. It was a flavor that sat heavy on the tongue, metallic and cold, stripping away the warmth of the world outside. Silas stood at the center of the circular chamber. He was twelve years old. He wore the tunic of the Order. It was a garment of heavy, undyed wool. The weave was tight. The texture was rough against his skin. It had no...
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