I’ll tell you, the pickaxe rang true that morning in the Minoc East Mine—sharp, like a bell struck once in a quiet chapel. Twenty-three good strikes, I reckon, each one sending a jolt up my arms and into my shoulders. The rock gave way in chunks, dark and heavy, and I could smell the damp earth and cold iron even before I pried the ore free. Five times I swung and hit nothing but solid stone, my arms trembling, sweat stinging my eyes. On the sixth miss, the pick slipped and scraped—sparks flew like angry fireflies in the dim torchlight. I cursed loud enough to scare the rats, but what could I do? The vein was thinning, and I was down to the stubborn stuff, the kind that laughs at tired men.
By the time I hauled myself to the mine forge, nearly fifty ingots weighing my pack down like a guilty conscience, my back was a knot of fire. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt like a march—especially when I got blocked twice trying to reach the forge. Some fool had left a crate right in the path again. I nearly dropped the whole load just shifting around it. But when I finally got the bellows going and fed the coals, ah… that warmth. It wasn’t just heat on my face; it was promise. I pulled the tongs from the rack, set a bar in the heart of the flame, and waited. Then—snap. The left jaw gave way, just like that. Cheap things, probably stolen or scavenged. I stared at the broken end, half laughing, half ready to hurl it into the dark. Had to borrow a pair from the blacksmith near the mining camp later, and he gave me that look—the one that says, Again, Grimm?
Still, I made it through. Folded the steel into itself three times, let it breathe, cooled it slow. Even managed to sell a batch to Old Tamsin at the vendor near Minoc. She didn’t haggle much, which told me I’d done it right. Felt good. Real good. Not rich, not by a long shot, but clean work.
Tomorrow, I’m finding me a better set of tongs. Maybe even try my hand at making my own.
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