The Pale Tale
The hammer struck the anvil with a sound that was less like metal and more like the breaking of a bone, a sharp, wet crack that echoed through the vaulted stone ceiling of the forge where the air was so thick with sulfur and dust that breathing felt like swallowing hot ash, and Thomas Whitmore did not flinch, did not pause, but drove the wedge into the heated iron with a ferocity that bordered...
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