The Pale Circus
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not drift so much as it pressed, a cold, damp hand against the face of the world, erasing the horizon and leaving only the immediate, suffocating present. Silas Vane, a Ranger of forty years whose face had been carved by wind and silence into a landscape of granite and shadow, walked toward the ruins of the old circus with a torch that burned with a pale,...
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