Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

Aye, the forge in Minoc’s mine was cold when I got there—cold and mocking. I’d hauled myself down that sloped tunnel from the surface, pack heavy with ore, boots clattering on the worn stone, only to find the damn thing dark. Not even a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. I stood there, pickaxe slung over my shoulder, sweat cooling on my neck, staring at those blackened bricks like they’d personally betrayed me. Twenty-eight smelts today, and three blocked? I could’ve sworn the flame flickered when I first rounded the bend, but no—just my hope playing tricks. That one failed smelt… hue 2418, cursed color… I dropped the stack right there in the dirt. No use wasting breath on unsmeltable rock.

I remember the first time I lit that forge myself—years back, hand trembling, striker in one palm, coal in the other. Now it’s second nature, or it should be. But standing there, idle, I felt the weight of the pack dig into my shoulders. Nearly fifty ingots already in there, some still warm from earlier runs at the blacksmith’s anvil near the bank. I’d sold off four stacks to Beth in the provisioner’s just before dusk, her fingers swift as she counted gold. Familiar face, that one. She didn’t haggle. But the mine forge—it’s different. It’s mine, in a way. Or feels like it, when the fire’s roaring and the tongs bite clean into red-hot ore.

I sat on the stone lip of the cooling rack, boots scuffed with ash, and waited. Listened to the drip of water from the ceiling, the distant clink of another miner’s pick. Thought about that unsmeltable ore—what fool magic makes rock refuse flame? After a while, I lit the forge myself. Took three strikes, but it caught. The heat came slow at first, then surged, lapping at the iron like a hungry thing. I fed it two chunks, watched the edges glow cherry, then white. When the ingots cooled enough to handle, I tucked them in my pack—solid, dense, real.

Come morning, I’m heading back to the surface forge. Let the mine rest. Maybe sharpen the pick first. That tongs broke last week still nags at me—slipped right during a pour. Steel’s unforgiving that way. But not tonight. Tonight, I’ve got gold in my pocket and fire in my bones. And that’s enough.