The Pale Circus
The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones of the capital slick and black as oil, reflecting the gaslight in long, trembling streaks. You stood beneath the awning of the General’s office, your uniform soaked through to the skin, the wool heavy and cold against your chest. Inside, the fire crackled with a violent, hungry sound, and the air smelled of pipe tobacco and old leather. "You have...
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