The Pale Dance
"You look like a man wearing a skin that does not fit him," said the old woman, her voice a dry leaf skittering over stone. I stood before her in the courtyard of the White House, the air thick with the scent of wet ash and the distant, thunderous roar of the city beyond the walls. I adjusted the collar of my tunic, the fabric heavy and rough against my neck, a constant, abrasive reminder of my...
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