The Wistful Ashes
The village of Oakhaven lay in a valley so deep that the sun seemed to arrive late and depart early, as if the sky itself were reluctant to witness what happened within its borders. For three generations, the smiths of Oakhaven had forged not merely horseshoes and plowshares, but the very bones of the community’s spirit. Their metal was dark, heavy, and warm to the touch, carrying a hum that...
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