The Golden Quest
The bellows of the forge exhale a breath that tastes of iron and old rain, a metallic tang that coats your tongue as you stand there, hands trembling not from the cold but from the sheer, terrifying weight of the object in your grip. It is a gear, or perhaps a heart, carved from a single piece of star-iron, its teeth interlocking in a perfect, impossible geometry that seems to hum with a...
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