The Pale Circus
The mud on the northern road was a thick, sucking thing that seemed to pull at the hem of my coat with every step, a physical resistance that mirrored the bureaucratic drag I had felt for the past three weeks in the capital’s dry, echoing halls. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I have spent the last decade of my life as a royal investigator, a man who trades in the cold arithmetic of...
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