The Distant Crown
The hammer fell, ringing out a sharp, cold note that cut through the morning mist. Elias Thorne wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands blackened with soot and calloused to the texture of old leather. He was forty years old, and the weight of the iron in his palms felt heavier than it had the night before, when the dream had come again. In the dream, a stag stood in the snow, its antlers...
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