Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

I’ll tell ye, the walk to Minoc East Mine ain’t ever been kind to me when the wind’s down from the moors. Cold bites right through the leather apron, and my fingers go stiff before I even swing the pick. But today, I needed the stone. Needed the iron. Gold’s been thinner than week-old broth lately, and the anvil at the Minoc blacksmith shop’s been silent too long. So I trudged, pack light, heart heavier, past the mine forge where the last embers of someone else’s work still glowed dull red in the hearth. That warmth called to me—felt like a promise I couldn’t afford yet.

The first few strikes in the shaft were hollow, the pick bouncing off stone like it was laughing at me. Then—clink. A real bite. Cold iron sang in my hands as the pick dug deep, sending a jolt up my arms and a shower of sparks dancing into the torchlight. I worked that vein slow, two fingers numb, breath fogging in front of my face, until I’d pried out nearly fifty ingots, heavy and rough in my pack. Every step back toward town felt like dragging an anvil uphill, but that weight—it was honest. Said I hadn’t wasted the day.

But when I finally reached the Provisioner, he looked at my haul and shook his head. “No room, Grimm. Not today.” I stood there, pack sagging, watching some dandy in polished armor walk out with a new breastplate I could’ve forged myself. Felt the ingots pressing into my shoulders like guilt. Still, I’ll sleep tonight with the forge in my dreams. Come dawn, I’m heading back. Maybe I’ll break open a richer seam. Maybe I’ll just break the tongs again—seems likely. But I’ll swing the hammer. I always do. Ain’t much else a man can count on.