Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

I’ll tell you, the forge in Minoc’s been breathing fire at me all week, but tonight it was the anvil that nearly broke my back. I’d just come in from the east mine—again—pack heavy with nearly fifty ingots, boots caked in that red dust that never seems to wash out, not even after three trips through the creek south of the stables. My arms were shaking, and the tongs? Gods, the tongs chose that moment to snap clean in half when I pulled the second kryss from the coals. Just crack, like a dry twig under a boot. I stared at the broken ends, one still clamped around the blade, the other in my hand, and I swear I could’ve laughed or wept—hard to say which.

The forge light flickered off the cracked tongs as I stood there, sweat stinging my eyes, the blade glowing cherry-red and helpless in the broken grip. I’d poured twenty ingots into three tries—two kryss at last, thank Mara—and now this. I had to grab the spare tongs from the rack, the warped ones I’ve been meaning to fix for weeks. They wobbled, and I held the blade at an awkward angle, reheating it twice just to finish the edge. But when I finally quenched it in the oil trough, the sound—hiss, deep and clean—made my shoulders loosen. That sound, that’s the one that tells you the steel lived. It didn’t crack. It held.

I carried them down to the armorer near the bank, still warm, wrapped in a scrap of burlap that smelled of soot and old leather. He didn’t haggle, just nodded and slid over a modest stack of coins—enough to eat for a week, maybe fix those tongs proper. But I stood there a moment after, watching the sunset hit the rooftops of Minoc, the way the light gilded the smithy chimneys. There’s a rhythm to this—mine, forge, sell, repeat—but tonight it felt less like a grind and more like a kind of prayer.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll try the deep shaft. Heard someone found mithril traces near the old pillar. Might need stronger tongs for that.