The Wistful Mountain
The iron is hot. You feel it in your teeth, a metallic taste that coats the tongue and burns the throat. The forge bellows pushes air into the coals with a rhythmic, labored breath. You are Elias. You are the Smith. You are the thing the Guild has made of you. You strike the blade. The sound is sharp, a crack that splits the silence of the workshop. Your arm aches. It has been aching for three...
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