Grimm's Journal — Jun 24

I’ll tell you, the air down in the East Mine near Minoc has a taste all its own—damp stone, old sweat, and something metallic that sticks in the back of your throat. I’d been at it since dawn, pickaxe biting into the rock, each swing ringing like a dull bell. My arms burned after the first dozen strikes, but you learn to ignore that ache, just like you ignore the way your boots squelch in the mud when the aquifer leaks again. By midday, I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one a cold, dense weight pulling on my shoulders. It’s a good weight, though. Honest. You can feel the day’s work settling into your bones.

I remember one strike in particular—third vein in the northern shaft—when the pick caught just right and cracked open a seam glowing faintly in the lantern light. Not mithril, not quite, but decent iron, the kind that sings when it hits the anvil. I knelt there, brushing dirt from the stone with my gloves, thinking of the forge behind the blacksmith’s shop, how the coals stay hot even when no one’s working, like the town itself is breathing. I could already smell the soot and sweat, see the sparks arching like fireflies when I beat the metal true.

But then I tried to make another pick—needed it, with the old one chipping at the head—and the hammer bounced off the ingot like I was pounding on cold bread. Skill too low, it said, like the anvil itself was laughing at me. I stood there, sweat cooling on my neck, wondering how many more times I’d have to haul this ore up from the dark just to learn what I don’t know. Nediva and Bran wouldn’t spare a copper, either, turned their noses up like I was begging for wine, not work.

Still, I’ll be back tomorrow. That forge isn’t going cold, and neither am I.