Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, shoulders aching like I’d been hauling boulders for a week instead of just one long, cursed shift. The air hung thick with the ghosts of a hundred fires—sulfur, scorched coal, and that sharp tang of iron hitting the anvil just right. I dropped my pickaxe by the door, and the clang echoed off the stone walls like a bell tolling the end of something. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Not from fear—though I’ve had my share of close calls deep in the tunnels—but from the rhythm, that relentless thunk-thunk of metal on rock all afternoon. Eight hours. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one dragging on my spine like a secret I didn’t want to carry.
But it wasn’t the weight that haunted me. It was the moment the tongs snapped. I’d just pulled a fresh billet from the coals, cherry-red and ready to shape, and snap—the jaw gave way like rotten wood. The ingot rolled into the dirt, still hissing, while I stood there, gripping the broken handle like a fool. I couldn’t help laughing, loud and raw, the kind of laugh that’s half sob. That pair of tongs had been with me since I first set up shop near the blacksmith west of the stables—three winters past. I’d welded them myself, same as I did my first anvil, same as I did my pride. And now they lay there, useless, the metal fatigued from heat and repetition, just like me.
I left the ingot where it cooled. Let it harden in the dirt. Took the broken tongs instead, tucked them into my belt. A reminder. The forge will always burn. The ore will always call. But tools wear out. Men do too. Still, come dawn, I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll forge a new pair while the coals are hot—thicker this time, tempered slow. And I’ll name them, like a promise. Because this life, it’s not about gold or weight or even skill. It’s about showing up. Even when your hands shake. Even when the tongs break. Especially then.
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