The Pale Dance
The ledger was open, its spine cracked and stiff, and Elara counted the hours of light that remained in the room, knowing that the fog outside had already swallowed the streetlamps, turning the world into a grey, breathing void. She had spent three weeks cataloging the Pale Dance manuscript, a collection of loose folios that smelled of damp wool and old iron, and she wanted nothing more than to...
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