Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

I’ll tell ye, Minoc’s been hard on me this day. Not the kind of hard that comes from swinging a pick too long—though I’ve done that plenty—but the kind that grinds on your bones when every step feels blocked, like the world itself don’t want you moving forward. I was down in the tunnels near the mine forge, hacking at the stone wall just past the low ceiling crawl, when my pick finally bit deep and the rock gave way. A shower of iron came loose, nearly fifty ingots clattering into my pack, and for a moment I thought, Maybe today’s the day. The weight settled on my shoulders like a promise. I could feel each lump shift with every step as I trudged back toward the surface, knuckles scraped, dust thick in my throat.

I aimed for the blacksmith near the city gate, the one with the warped anvil and the red-coated apprentice who never looks up. Forty paces out, the path clogged with carts and fools on horseback. I tried again. And again. Kept getting turned aside, like some unseen hand pushed me back each time. Yelled for help, half-joking, and gods bless the fools with nothing better to do—some squire or stablehand picked up a few stray ingots I'd dropped in frustration and tossed ‘em back. Didn’t need ‘em, but he did it anyway. Small thing, but it kept me from chucking my pick into the river.

I ended up hunched near the fountain, counting ingots like a beggar counts coppers. Tried selling to Veda at the provisioner’s stall—she wrinkled her nose like I was offering rat meat. “Not today, miner,” she said, and turned back to her carrots.

But I’ll be back at the forge tomorrow. Maybe sharpen a new pick first. A man’s got to hit something that gives back.