The Distant Journey
The leather of your right hand has given out. You know this before you even lift the glove, for the skin beneath is raw, chafed, and peeling at the knuckles, a map of small, red wounds that sting with the cold air of the workshop. You are a master of the trade, or so the Guild of Silversmiths and Leatherworkers of Ashworth claims, though the title feels less like an honor and more like a...
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