The Wistful Witness
The iron is hot. It sings a high, thin note against the anvil. You strike. The sound is not metal on metal. It is a toothache. It is the grinding of your own jaw. You are in the cell. The stone is cold against your back, though the air shimmers with heat. You are not a blacksmith. You are a sinner. The hammer is heavy. It is a part of you now. It grew from your hand like a tumor of steel. You...
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