The Pale Circus

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2026-08-23 10:14:56 -

The Pale Circus

The brass insignia of the Royal Guard sat in my palm, cold and smooth as a river stone, its edges worn thin by twenty years of my sweat and the friction of the belt it was meant to secure. I turned it over, watching the light catch the chipped enamel of the lion’s head, thinking of the pension ledger that would finally clear my name before the winter frost set in and the courts closed for the...

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