The Distant Whispers
The gear is too heavy for your hands, Elias. Clara’s voice cut through the low thrum of the workshop, sharp as a file on steel. She stood near the anvil, wiping grease from her palms, her face flushed from the heat of the forge. Outside, the winter solstice feast was in full swing, the laughter and clinking of glasses muffled by the thick stone walls, but inside, the air was thick with the...
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