The Pale Circus
"Did you think the glass would hold the weight of your debt?" The Chief Steward’s voice was dry, like the dust that coated the interior of the low-orbit hotel, a physical fact that settled into the creases of Odd Odden’s skin. Odd stood in the lower archives of the Icelandic fishing station, his hands trembling around the shard of the royal ice-mirror, a piece of the Pale King’s vanity he had...
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