The Pale Circus
Act I Could the silence of a man be louder than the crack of porcelain? Vessa Ithel stood in the shadow of the Iron Spire, the soot of the reclamation yard clinging to his skin like a second, darker epidermis, while the heat of the midday sun pressed against the glass of the palace windows, a physical weight that made the air taste of copper and old dust. He was the lamp-keeper of the sun-road,...
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