The Wistful Saga
The frost bit the iron of my spear. I held it tight. The wood was cold. Colder than bone. I stood in the hall. The fire died. Sparks rose. They fell. They died. My wife, Elara, sat by the hearth. She wove. The loom clicked. Click. Click. A rhythm. It was the heartbeat of the house. It was the only sound that mattered. I looked at my hands. They were red. Not with blood. With cold. I pulled my...
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