Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

I’ll tell you, the walk back from the East Mine to the blacksmith in Minoc feels longer when your pack’s full of iron and your pockets are still empty. I had nearly fifty ingots in there—felt like a mountain strapped to my back—and my shoulders were screaming by the time I passed the tanner’s shop. Smelled like burnt hair and wet leather, same as always. I paused a second, not to rest, but just to breathe. The sun was high, baking the cobbles, and I remember the way the sweat ran down my temple, stinging my eye. Didn’t wipe it. Felt like I earned that sting.

The real moment that stuck, though? When I dropped the tongs. Just outside the forge door—clatter on the stone—and one of the long iron rods I’d been shaping snapped in half as it hit the ground. I just stared at it. Hot metal, still glowing faint orange at the tip, now useless. I’d spent half the morning pulling that ore from the deep vein near the mine’s west wall, then hours at the forge, sweat dripping into the coals, listening to the rhythm of my own hammer. And there it went. One slip. One stupid, tired slip. The tongs were old, the grip worn smooth from years of heat and pressure. Should’ve replaced them weeks ago.

I stood there, hands on my hips, staring at the broken rod like it owed me gold. Then I laughed. Gods, I laughed. Because what else can you do? This life—mining, forging, hauling—ain’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. About the next swing of the pick, the next strike of the hammer. I picked up the pieces, tossed the scrap into the salvage bin, and went back to the bellows.

Come morning, I’m heading straight to the vendor near the bank, sell what I’ve got, maybe buy a new pair of tongs. Or forge my own. Yeah. I think I’ll forge my own.