The Distant Legend
The iron key was cold in my palm, its teeth worn smooth by years of turning, and I was scrubbing the rust from the floor of the old guardhouse when the light through the high, barred window shifted from the pale grey of dawn to the sharp, white glare of midday. I had been at it for three hours, my knuckles split and bleeding, the smell of metal shavings and damp stone thick in the air. I am...
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