The Wistful Asylum
The forge bell rang at dawn, a sharp, metallic cry that cut through the thick, damp mist clinging to the cobblestones of the village square. Elias Thorne did not look up from his anvil. The hammer in his hand was heavy, a familiar weight that had been his companion for forty years, and the rhythmic strike of steel on steel was the only language he truly understood. Around him, the village of...
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