I’ll tell ye, there’s a rhythm to the day when you’re hauling ore outta them Minoc hills—same as there is to the clang of hammer on steel at the forge down near the blacksmith’s row. Came up from the east mine this morning with nearly fifty ingots in my pack, shoulders screaming, dust thick in my throat. You learn to walk a certain way, tilted forward, like the weight’s part of you. I passed that crooked signpost where the goblins used to lurk before the guards started patrolling regular, and for a moment I let myself think I was clear. But the real test don’t come in the tunnels—it comes at the anvil.
I’d just gotten back to the mine forge, sweat stinging my eyes, when I went to grab the tongs. Old ones, worn thin at the hinge. I clamped ‘em on a fresh bar of iron, slid it into the coals, and snap—right there, the left jaw gave. Just broke clean off. I about cursed loud enough to wake the dead in the catacombs. Kicked the damn thing into the dirt, I did. Sat there a moment, staring at the fire, hands trembling not from tiredness but that sharp bite of frustration, like biting into a cold potato when you’re starved. I’ve had those tongs near three months. They were mine. Felt like losing a partner.
But then I remembered Yale, that tinker near the stables, always got a spare tool or two rattling in his cart. Took me seven trips back and forth just to get the gold sorted—deposited what I could at the bank, counted coppers twice because I didn’t trust my own fingers. When I finally bought the new tongs—solid brass hinge, cold to the touch—I held ‘em like a promise. Tested ‘em on the next bar. Squeezed. Held firm. The first spark when I struck the iron true? That was sweet. Sweeter than drink, even.
Come morning, I’m heading back down into the east shaft. And this time, I’m taking two pairs of tongs.
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