The Pale Circus
The chandelier in the Ironwood Company’s mess hall swung with a slow, hypnotic creak, casting long, trembling shadows across the polished mahogany table where the men of the Third Shift sat in stiff silence. Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and bearing the weight of a mother’s failing lungs in his chest, watched the candlelight dance on the crystal glasses, his mind fixed on the...
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