The Wistful Crossroads
The hammer rings against the anvil, a sharp, metallic cry that cuts through the heavy, salt-laden air of the workshop. You strike the steel, again and again, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat, your muscles coiled with a tension that has nothing to do with the physical labor and everything to do with the silence of the village beyond the stone walls. "You are beating the iron until it screams,"...
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