The Pale Circus
The fog in Blackwood did not rise; it settled, a grey, oily blanket that smelled of sulfur and wet wool. I had been walking for three days, my boots worn through at the toes, my pockets heavy with the weight of empty coins and a silver pocket watch that had begun to tick backward since I last lied to myself about my worth. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am a conjurer, a title that sounds...
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