The Distant Promise
The iron is screaming, a high, thin shriek that tears through the thick, sulfurous air of the smithy, and you are gripping the tongs with hands that have forgotten how to tremble, how to beg, how to be anything other than the vessel through which the heat passes. The anvil is black and slick with the sweat of a hundred forged lies, and the hammer in the other hand is heavy, a brutal weight that...
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