The Pale Circus
The rot had reached the knuckles of Sir Kaelen’s left hand by the time he knelt before the Court Alchemist. The smell of it, a sweet, sickly decay, clung to his sleeve and the air around him. He was forty years old, his armor dented and tarnished, his face a map of scars he no longer counted. He had come to the Palace of Iron Gates in the winter of 1342 seeking a cure, a physical remedy for the...
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