Minoc’s mine forge always smells the same—sulfur and damp stone, like the earth’s holding its breath. I stood there tonight, pickaxe in hand, sweat stinging the corner of my eye, and swung into that stubborn vein near the back wall. The third strike finally cracked it loose, and the ore clattered like broken teeth across the stone floor. I’d been at it near two hours, hauling out chunk after chunk, my back singing a low, aching hymn. The air was thick with the ghost of old fires, and every breath tasted like iron dust and forgotten effort.
But it was at the forge where things nearly went sideways. Ten ingots I’d smelted already, glowing orange in the coals, when the tongs snapped—cold iron giving way with a sound like a twig under a boot. One moment I’m pulling a billet clear, the next it’s clattering onto the cinder path, still white-hot. I cursed loud enough that old Torvik glanced up from his anvil across the shop. Had to fetch the backup set, the shorter ones I hate—makes you lean too close, risk singeing your beard. But I got it. That one ingot, saved not by skill but sheer pigheadedness, joined the others in my pack. Felt the weight of them—nearly fifty ingots now—dragging on my shoulders like old promises.
What gets me isn’t the labor, though. It’s the rhythm. The swing, the spark, the heft. There’s truth in it. Out there in the mine, no one’s lying about who you are. The rock doesn’t care if you’re Grimm the smith or Grimm the fool. It answers only to force and patience. And when I walked into the blacksmith’s shop, pack groaning, and handed three stacks to Elira at the counter, she didn’t smile—but she didn’t haggle either. That’s as close to respect as you get in this trade.
Come dawn, I’m heading back. Not for the coin—though ninety-six gold’s nothing to sneeze at—but because I left a scratch in the stone today, just left of the main vein. Looks like mithril, or wishful thinking. Either way, I’ll know by morning.
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