The Wistful Dinner
The hammer struck the anvil with a sound like a bone breaking, a sharp, wet crack that echoed off the damp stone walls of the workshop, and Elias Thorne did not look up from the silver strip he was bending into a curve, his fingers blackened with soot and trembling with a fatigue that went deeper than muscle, deeper into the marrow where the cold had started to settle. He was repairing the...
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