The Pale Dance

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2026-08-23 03:58:15 -

The Pale Dance

The heavy iron tongs lay in your palm, cold enough to bite through the leather of your glove, and you held them as if they were the only solid thing left in the world. The workshop smelled of sulfur and stale sweat, a thick, acrid fog that clung to the back of your throat. You had been awake for three days, the hum in your teeth a low, grinding drone that had become so constant you had stopped...

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