I’ll tell you, the walk back from the mine forge near Minoc was near unbearable that day—the kind where every step jolts the weight in your pack up into your kidneys. Nearly fifty ingots, most of them iron but a few decent-looking ones streaked with silver, clunked against each other with each footfall. I could’ve sworn I heard them sing when the pick first broke the seam—three solid strikes and then that sweet, hollow clink like a bell tapped under stone. That’s the sound you dream about when you’re down on your knees scraping pyrite from cave walls, wondering if you’ll ever eat real meat again.
But it wasn’t the weight that wore on me. It was the tongs. Gods, those tongs. I’d been using the same pair since I first took up the hammer—bought them secondhand from a drunk who swore they came from a virtuoso in Trinsic. They’d held up, mostly, but halfway through folding a bastard sword’s edge at the blacksmith’s anvil, the joint gave with a snap that made me jump like I’d been cursed. One minute I’m sweating over the coals, feeling the rhythm in my arms, the next—my work drooping like wet parchment on the stone. I just stood there, staring at the ruined blade, the forge heat still biting my face, wondering if I’d ever get the balance right. A boy passing by with a sack of turnips took one look and laughed. I didn’t blame him.
I ended up selling the salvageable ingots to Old Marna at the Provisioner. She didn’t haggle much—knew I was down to my last copper. Her breath smelled of mint and iron filings, same as always. “You’ll get the tongs right next time,” she said, pressing the coins into my palm like they were a secret. And maybe she’s right. I’ve got a piece of high-carbon scrap cooling by my cot. Come dawn, I’ll try again. Might even forge the tongs myself this time—do it proper, with a tempered hinge. A man’s only as good as his tools, and mine are overdue for a reckoning.<|im_end|>
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