The Wistful Crossroads
The copper pot sits on the cold hearth, its surface etched with the spiral of a nautilus shell, a pattern you have burned into the metal with a chisel and a steady hand for forty years. It is not merely a vessel; it is a mouth, and you know this with a certainty that bypasses logic, a knowledge that lives in the marrow of your fingers. The kingdom of Ashworth is not a place of castles and...
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