The Pale Circus

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2026-08-22 01:29:37 -

The Pale Circus

The rain tasted of iron. I spit. The taste lingered. Metallic. Cold. My hands shook. Not from fear. From the cold. The wind cut through my cloak. It cut through the skin. It cut through the bone. I was a clerk. A scribe. I held a quill. I did not hold a sword. But here I was. On the road. In the dark. The village burned. Smoke rose. Thick. Black. It choked the sky. The stars were gone. The moon...

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