The Faded Masquerade
The hammer strikes the iron with a rhythm that is less a sound and more a physical blow against the inside of your skull, a dull, rhythmic thudding that syncs with the erratic pounding of your heart as you stand amidst the chaos of the smithy, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning coal and the metallic tang of blood that you cannot quite explain is coming from your own lip. You are...
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