The Pale Circus
The mortar sat in Elara Vane’s hands, the stone worn smooth by ten years of grinding dried roots and bitter bark. It was a heavy, dull thing, its rim chipped where it had struck the table too many times in the small back room of the mill office. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, a sharp, industrial shiver that vibrated through the floorboards and into her bones. She looked at the...
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