The Faded River
The molten gather on the blowpipe was a bright, screaming eye, and I was blowing into it with all the air in my lungs, trying to keep the shape from collapsing under its own weight, while the smell of sulfur and hot iron hung in the workshop like a heavy, wet blanket that I could not shake off. It was the year of our Lord 1240, and the city of Aethelgard was dying by degrees, though the High...
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