Minoc’s mine forge still reeks of old coal and damp ore, same as it did when I first swung a pick at sixteen. I sat on a broken anvil—just for a breath—my pack stuffed near full with iron, nearly fifty ingots wedged in tight, each one a dull weight against my back. The air down there clung to my skin, thick with dust and the faint metallic tang of raw stone, like licking a rusted nail. I’d been at it since dawn, chipping away at the seam behind the western wall, the one that runs crooked and stubborn, like it knew I wanted it gone.
But it wasn’t the haul that stuck with me—it was the tongs. Old, cracked, handed down from Olaf, who got crushed by a cave-in near Yew. I was quenching a pickaxe head, trying to harden the tip just right, when the left jaw snapped clean off. Just… crack, like a dry twig under a boot. I stared at it, half in disbelief, half in that dull anger you only know when your tools betray you. The metal hissed in the trough, curling steam around my boots, and I could feel the heat still radiating up my arms, even as my hands went cold. I muttered something—not a prayer, not a curse—just my father’s voice in my head: “A smith’s only as good as his tools, boy. But he’s still a smith when they break.”
So I welded the tongs back with a scrap of high-carbon steel, shaky hands and too much charcoal, but it held. Not pretty, but it’ll serve. I’ll need better soon—maybe forge a new pair tomorrow, if the vein holds. For now, I left a few tools with Brogden at the blacksmith shop near the stables. He’ll trade fair, like he always does, and I’ll walk out with a lighter pack and a few more coins than I came in with. Might even buy a proper meal. But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll sit here in the dim light of the tavern, listening to the drunkards laugh, and feel the phantom weight of that broken tongs in my palm—proof I’m still shaping something, even when it all wants to fall apart.
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