Aye, the hammer’s still singing in my bones from today. I was down in that tight-lipped tunnel near Minoc, the one that stinks of wet stone and old sweat, where the ore veins run stubborn as mules. My pickaxe bit deep into the wall—clink, clink, clink—each strike sending a jolt up my arms, but I welcomed it. There’s honesty in that ache. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack now, all pulled from the dark, each one a promise. I could feel the weight pulling at my shoulders, but it was a good weight—the kind that says you’ll eat tonight, and maybe buy a proper stew from Old Man Hemlock’s stall.
But it was at the mine forge, just east of the tunnel mouth, where things turned quiet. I’d smelted five good batches already, the flames roaring orange and hungry, when I reached for the tongs—cheap things, bought off a wandering vendor last winter—and the handle snapped clean off. Just snapped. I stared at it, half in shadow, the heat washing over my face, sweat stinging my eyes. That moment… it wasn’t anger, not really. It was weariness, the kind that seeps in when your tools betray you. I had to use the tongs from the forge’s rack, the heavy iron ones that throw your grip off. Still, I managed to hammer out a decent hatchet—nothing fancy, but balanced true. Sold it quick to Dorin at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. He didn’t haggle much, which I took as a compliment.
Funny, how a broken tool can make you question every choice. I stood there afterward, hands black with soot, listening to the clink of gold hitting my pouch—sixteen coins for that hatchet, more than I’d hoped—and I thought, maybe it’s not the ore or the flame that shapes a man. Maybe it’s the moments between, when the world gives way just a little, and you have to keep going anyway.
Come dawn, I’ll be back in that tunnel. And this time, I’m bringing my own tongs—thick, hand-forged, and true.
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