The Golden Song
The hammer struck the anvil with a sound like a bone snapping, a sharp, final report that echoed off the stone walls of the forge where the heat was thick enough to taste, metallic and stale, and I stood there, sweat cutting through the soot on my face, watching the glow of the iron die into a dull, angry red while the old man, Thomas Bradshaw, held his breath as if the air itself had been...
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