Grimm's Journal — Apr 13

Minoc’s mines reek on a damp morning like this one—wet stone and old iron, that sour tang of sweat left in pick handles. I was down near the lower tunnels where the ore veins run thick but the air runs thinner, hacking at a stubborn seam of iron with my pick. Each strike sent a jolt up my arms, like the mountain itself was resisting. My knuckles were raw, and the lantern on the wall flickered like it had better things to do. I counted ten solid swings before the rock gave way, crumbling just enough to spill out a heavy cluster of ore. Felt good. Real good. Like the earth finally deciding to cut a man a break.

I hauled the load up to the mine forge near the east shaft—just a few crumbling bricks and a dented bellows, but it’s mine. Or at least, it’s the one I’ve claimed through grime and stubbornness. The first dozen ingots melted down smooth, but then the tongs snapped. Bronze, warped from too many heats, just cracked clean in half when I pulled a glowing bar from the coals. I stared at the broken ends, still glowing red, and nearly kicked the anvil. Forty-three ingots already in my pack, and now I’m standing there like a fool, holding half a tool. Had to fold the leather apron into a pad and clamp the ingot with the anvil horn to turn it. Worked, but it was slow, each second burning like coin slipping through fingers.

By the time I staggered into town, the sun was high and the weight had settled into my shoulders like old grief. Nearly fifty ingots, and the blacksmith near the stables—old man Draven—was leaning in his doorway, whistling at nothing. He didn’t say a word when I dumped the lot on his counter. Just weighed them, counted out 120 gold, gave me a nod like we’d both survived something. That quiet exchange meant more than any cheer.

Now I’m here, tankard in hand, feeling the ache in my back and the ghost of the forge’s heat on my face. Tomorrow, I’m buying new tongs. And maybe a better hammer. Maybe.