The Wistful Petal
The iron is already hot, a glowing eye staring out from the darkness of the forge, and you are standing in the middle of the floor with your hands shaking so violently that the tongs slip from your grip and clatter against the stone, the sound sharp and final in the quiet of the workshop. You know, with a certainty that feels like a physical weight settling into your marrow, that this is the...
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