The Pale Circus
The mud of the Pale Circus was not merely wet; it was a thick, sucking slurry of rot and iron, and it clung to your boots with a persistence that felt personal, a violation of the skin. You stood alone in the center of the ruined arena, the mist coiling around your knees like the ghosts of the acrobats who had once leaped from the rigging, their bones now dust beneath the grass. Your hand...
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