The Pale Circus
The mist in the highlands of 1893 did not merely obscure the world; it consumed it, a thick, grey wool that strangled the light and turned the ancient pines into skeletal fingers clawing at a sky that refused to show itself. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your boots are caked in the red clay of the valley floor, the mud heavy and cold against your legs as you push through the...
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