The Pale Circus
The stone floor beneath your knees is cold and slick with a moisture that smells of ozone and old copper, the air in the Pale Circus so thick you can taste the metallic tang of your own pulse as it hammers against the inside of your skull. You are Silas Vane, thirty-two years old, a veteran of the Iron Guard, and you have been trapped in this suffocating belly of the earth for seven years, your...
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