I’ll tell ye, there’s a particular kind of ache that settles into your shoulders after a day spent wedged between stone and sweat down in the Minoc mines. I was down there come sunup, pickaxe in hand, the air thick with dust and the low echo of metal on rock. Each strike rang out like a dull bell, and I swear the mountain itself groaned back. My arms burned by the third vein, but I kept at it—rhythm’s everything. Swing, chip, listen. Swing, chip, listen. You learn to hear the difference between solid granite and the soft whisper of iron buried deep. By midday, I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy enough to make my belt creak with every step back to the surface.
But it wasn’t the weight that stayed with me—it was the moment my tongs snapped. I’d just pulled a glowing bar from the mine’s little forge, red as a dying ember, and crack—the handle gave way. Iron clattered onto the anvil, then onto the stone floor, hissing like an angry serpent as it cooled too fast. I just stood there, staring at those broken tongs, grease-stained and useless. Twelve years I’ve worked this trade, and a simple tool betrays me like that. I thought about chucking the whole lot—the ingot, the tongs, my pride—into the scrap pile. But instead, I knelt, picked it up with leather gloves still warm from the fire, and hammered it straight on the anvil. Not perfect, but serviceable. Good enough.
Funny thing is, that bar—the one I saved—sold just fine at the Provisioner’s stall later. Old Berrin didn’t even blink when I laid it down. “Grimm,” he said, tossing me a few coins, “your work’s ugly, but it holds.” I laughed, but it stuck with me. Maybe that’s all any of us do—patch what breaks, keep moving, make do.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back to the Tinker’s shop. Need proper tongs this time, forged right. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll try my hand at something finer than horseshoes. If iron can bend without breaking, why can’t I?
No replies yet.