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... clank, followed by a long, weary sigh.
Darin wiped the sweat off his brow and squinted at the horseshoe he had just finished forging. It was technically horse-shaped. If one were to squint. In the dark. From a very forgiving angle.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "at least this one doesn't look like a melted pretzel."
A voice called out from behind him. "Darin, tell me that's not for my horse."
Darin turned to see old man Harken, the village stable master, eyeing ...
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