The Pale Circus
The fog in Harrowgate does not clear; it thickens, a grey wool suffocating the gas lamps and the cobblestones. You are twelve years old, and your name is Elias, though the cold has begun to eat away at the certainty of who you are. You stand before the Pale Circus, its canvas walls taut and white as a shroud, the entrance a gaping maw that smells of sawdust and rot. Inside, the Ringmaster...
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