The Wistful Saga
The dream is not a dream but a bruise on the mind, a deep purple swelling that pulses with the rhythm of a hammer striking iron. You are in the workshop, but the walls are made of translucent skin, and through them, the night is breathing. You hold the thing in your hands. It is a bell, but it is not metal. It is grown from a single, massive thorn of the blackthorn bush, curved and polished...
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