Opus 1655

Phillip A. Ellis

Evenings, Tropaion would climb up the hill to the north of the village, sunlight decaying to dusk. In the winter, his breath was like steam, cold, mazy to see as he struggled. One evening, he found that the snow lay thick to his thighs, in their drifts. He had sweated all day in the village forge, where, apprenticed to Stichyio, implements needed by farmers, builders

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