The Pale Dance

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2026-08-21 18:38:33 -

The Pale Dance

The frost had not yet melted from the cobblestones of Millhaven when I woke, the cold seeping through the wool of my blanket like a slow, grey tide. My hands, the instruments of my trade and the anchors of my identity, lay still on the bedspread, knuckles swollen and skin thickened by years of pulling rope and holding steel. I was a man who believed in the architecture of the law, a rigid grid...

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