Grimm's Journal — Apr 14

I’ll tell you, the walk back from the mines near Minoc is never quiet, even when it feels like you're alone. The pickaxe in my hand had a rhythm to it earlier—thunk, scrape, thunk—like a heartbeat in the stone. Twenty-six strikes that counted, though gods know how many more I swung just chasing the glint of ore in the dark. By the time I lugged those chunks to the mine forge, my shoulders were singing a low, sour tune. But it’s not the weight that wears on you—it’s the waiting. Standing over that forge, feeding raw ore into the belly of it, watching it bloom into something useful… there’s warmth there, sure, but also patience. Seven times I stoked those flames, and each ingot that cooled felt heavier than the last. Nearly fifty in my pack by the time I turned toward town, clinking like old bones with every step.

Then came the blacksmith’s anvil. I’d shaped tools enough—five good picks, solid hafts, the kind that sell fast. But I got greedy. Thought I’d try my hand at a cutlass. My fingers remembered the steps, but my skill didn’t follow. The steel warped before my eyes, and the tongs snapped—cold iron giving way to frustration. Ten ingots, gone. Melted into failure. I stood there, sweat drying on my neck, staring at the twisted thing like it owed me coin. The anvil still bore the mark of that last hammerfall, a little dent in the corner where I’d struck too hard, too angry. Felt like the whole shop was judging me.

Funny thing, though. Even after that, I walked into Minoc and found Old Mariah at her vendor stall. She didn’t flinch at my dented cutlass—just paid me a few coins for the picks. Enough to eat, anyway. I’ll try the blade again. Not today. Maybe after I let the forge dust settle, and my hands forget the tremor of that broken tongs.