The Golden Harbor
The iron was already red, glowing with a heat that seemed to breathe, and young Thomas Ashworth held the tongs with hands that trembled not from fear, but from a rage so pure it had become a kind of prayer. He was twelve, a boy of sharp angles and dirt-caked knees, living in the shadow of the old mill that had swallowed his father’s life three winters past. The air in the smithy was thick,...
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