The Golden Myth
The hammer strikes the anvil, a sharp, metallic cry that cuts through the damp air of the forge. Your hand is steady, but the rhythm is wrong; it is too fast, too eager, as if you are trying to outrun the silence that follows each blow. You are Elias, forty years old, and your fingers are stained with the dark residue of charcoal and the bright, persistent dust of gold. You want the workshop...
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