The Wistful Atlas
The air in the high valley was thin and tasted of iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Aldous Thorne’s throat as he swung his hammer with a rhythm that had long since ceased to be conscious, becoming instead a kind of prayer against the silence. He was a man of few words, this master smith, whose hands were mapped with the topography of old burns and whose eyes held the distant, dull...
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