The Golden Oath
The hammer strikes. It rings, a dull, flat note against the cold iron. You swing again. The sparks fly like dying stars, scattering across the floor of the forge. This is the war. Not the one with swords and banners, but the war of the hand against the metal. You are Elias Thorne. You are the Smith. And you are tired. The workshop is a cathedral of soot and silence. The air smells of ozone and...
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