The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-21 14:46:08 -

The iron of the anvil sang a high, thin note against the dark, a sound that tasted of copper and old blood in my mouth. I was hammering, my arms a blur of motion, the sweat stinging the cuts on my forearms, not from the heat of the forge but from the cold that had settled into the marrow of my bones. In the court of King Aldric, time did not pass; it accumulated. It settled in the dust of the...

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