The Golden Crossing
The axe bit deep. You swung again. The wood splintered with a sound like a breaking bone. In the hearth, the fire roared, hungry and bright, reflecting the sweat on your brow. You are small. The handle is too long. Your arms burn. But you do not stop. The wood must be split. The house must be warm. The night is coming, and the night is not kind. You look at the log. It is dark and wet. It...
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