The Distant Blade
Elias Thorne, you are bleeding on the floor again. The voice was not Silas’s, but the memory of it hung in the cold air of the forge, sharp and familiar as the hiss of quenching oil. I wiped the blood from my nose with the back of a soot-stained hand, the taste of iron thick on my tongue, and looked at the ingot resting on the anvil. It was the Whispering Steel, a raw block of metal that hummed...
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