The Pale Circus
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall; it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and the wet stone of the square. He stood before the ancient clock tower, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the vibration traveling up through the soles of his boots. The tower shuddered, a low, tectonic groan that seemed to come from the earth itself rather than the...
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