The Distant Whispers
The hammer fell. A sharp, rhythmic thud. The iron anvil sang a low, resonant note. Elias Vance did not look up. He kept his eyes on the steel, glowing orange in the heart of the forge. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of hot coal. Sweat stung his eyes. He blinked it away. The metal was malleable. It waited for his will. He was the King’s Smith. Not a title he had sought. It was a...
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