Aye, it’s Grimm here, fingers still black with soot and my back tighter than a drawn crossbow. Spent the hour shuttling between the iron veins near Minoc and that squat little forge tucked behind the blacksmith’s—same one with the warped anvil and the roof that leaks when it rains. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve crouched there, feeding ore into the fire like it’s some hungry beast that never stays full. But it was the last smelt that got under my skin. I’d just hauled two heavy stacks from the vein at (2459,558), knuckles scraped raw from the pickaxe handle, and by the time I fed the third batch into the coals, the tongs snapped clean in half. Just… crack. Cheap things. I stood there like a fool, staring at the broken ends, sparks flickering in my beard, while the ingots cooled too fast in the ash. Had to finish the job with pliers meant for horseshoes—felt all wrong, like carving meat with a spoon.
But I got nine ingots out of it, somehow. Nine small bars, warm enough to make my palms sweat when I tucked them into my pack. Already nearly fifty in there, pressing down on my shoulders like old regrets. I made the walk into town slow, boots crunching on gravel, watching the sun bleed red over the hills. The vendor near the stables—Mira, red scarf, never haggles too hard—took them without a word and handed me a pouch that clinked like a promise. Hundred gold. Enough to buy new tongs, maybe even a better apron. But standing there, weight lifted but body still aching, I realized it wasn’t the gold I felt. It was the heat. The way the forge breathes, how the metal groans when it gives up its impurities. I’ve got Mining mastery, sure, but my hammer still fumbles on the anvil.
Come morning, I’m skipping the mine. Gonna sit at that anvil all day, even if I burn a hole in my apron or ruin three ingots trying to shape a decent dagger. There’s something in the rhythm I’m chasing—not just coins, not just skill. Something truer, in the ring of steel on steel.
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