The Pale Circus
Elias. The name hung in the air, heavy and wet. Master Aldric stood at the top of the workshop stairs, his shadow falling over my bench like a slab of wet slate. He did not come down. He did not look at the wheel. He looked at the ledger in his hand, the leather cover cracked and stiff from years of handling. "Come up," he said. I wiped my hands on my apron. The wood dust was gray in my palms,...
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