Grimm's Journal — Apr 14

Minoc’s forge was singing tonight, the kind of heat that makes your skin prickle even ten paces off. I’d just come in from the mines near the foothills—back stiff, hands gritty with stone dust, nearly fifty ingots in my pack dragging like dead weight. The air in the smithy was thick with the smell of hot iron and old coal, and the bellows wheezed like an old drunk snoring in the corner. I dumped the ore near the smelter, counted out twelve good chunks, and fed them into the flames. Each one hissed like a serpent as it sank into the fire, and I stood there, pickaxe leaning against the anvil, watching the metal bleed from rock into something useful.

It was the third smelt when the tongs snapped. Just cracked clean in half—cheap iron, probably folded too many times. I cursed loud enough that old Harlan looked up from his bench across the room. There I was, sweating through my tunic, one hand burned from the flare when the ore slipped, gripping the broken handle like it owed me coin. I stared at it, that stupid piece of junk, and for a moment I wanted to hurl it into the fire and let it melt down to slag. I’ve been at this forge near ten years, and still, the tools won’t hold. My blacksmithy’s stalled at sixty-two—good enough for horseshoes and hinges, but not for tinker’s tools, not yet. Felt like the world was pressing down, heavier than my pack ever could.

But then I dipped the new ingots, quenched them in the trough, and listened to that sweet sizzle. Picked up the hammer. One strike, then another. Rhythm finds you, eventually. Made a set of miner’s picks—sturdy, balanced. Left one on Harlan’s bench as thanks for not laughing. Sold the rest to Brenna at the general store near the stables. She didn’t haggle, just handed over gold with a nod. Felt lighter walking back, even with fresh ore already calling from the hillside. Tomorrow, I’ll try the tongs again. Maybe file down the hinge myself. Something’s got to give.