The Pale Circus

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 09:41:49 -

The Pale Circus

I had counted the strokes of the quill for forty-three years, each dip into the inkwell a small, deliberate act of preservation. The King lay dying in the upper chamber, his breath a wet rattle that competed with the silence of the room, and I sat at the oak desk, my hand steady, my mind a ledger. I was thirty years old, though the lines around my eyes suggested a man twice that age, worn down...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews