I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe biting into that stone at the mine just east of Minoc—it sings a song only sore arms and stubborn hearts understand. Came down just after dawn, the air still damp with dew, and I swung into the rockface like I was owed something. Thirty-five times that pick rang true, each strike sending a jolt up my spine, each shiver of ore breaking free feeling like a small victory. By midday I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy but honest, and the walk back to the forge near the blacksmith’s quarter wasn’t so bad—just sweat, boots grinding on dirt, and the occasional groan from my shoulders.
But it wasn’t the weight that nearly broke me. Nah. It was the forge. I’d stoked the fire high, tongs in hand, ready to shape a cutlass—something clean, something proud. Ten ingots gone in a blink. One misstep, one split-second when the steel cooled just a hair too fast, and the blade cracked down the spine. The tongs slipped. I cursed so loud Old Man Dray at the next bench nearly dropped his hammer. That’s the thing they don’t tell you—crafting’s not just heat and muscle. It’s patience, timing, the feel of the metal breathing under your hand. I stood there, sweat dripping into my eyes, staring at that ruined hunk of iron like it was a mirror.
Sold what I could to Beth at the vendor stall near the stables—just scrap, mostly. She gave me a look, handed over a few coins, said, “Back again tomorrow, Grimm?” Like she already knew the answer. I do. I will be. Because tomorrow I’m starting with the tongs. Gonna forge a new pair myself, thick and true. And then? Another cutlass. And another, if I have to, until one walks out of that fire whole.
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