I’ll tell you, the air in Minoc’s forge smelled like burnt hope that afternoon—thick with coal smoke and the sour tang of failed attempts. I’d been at it since dawn, hauling ore up from the deep veins near the mountain pass, my pickaxe biting into the stone like it owed me coin. By midday I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy enough to make my shoulders burn, but the real weight was the frustration. Smelting was a battle—seventeen times the bellows choked, the fire spat back at me, or some fool walked through my workspace like it was a market lane. You know how it is—just when you’re in the rhythm, someone bumps your elbow and your iron’s ruined slag.
But it was that one cutlass that stuck in my craw. I’d counted the ingots myself—eight, clean and cooled, stacked beside the anvil. I could already see its edge catching the sun as I handed it to the guard captain down south. I raised the hammer, heart steady, and then—nothing. The forge flashed red, then dull. Server said I was short, but I knew I had them. Took me a breath to see the truth: one ingot had rolled into the ash, hidden under a crust of cinder. I fished it out with the tongs—blackened, stubborn—and that moment, gripping the warped metal, I felt every blister on my hands, every sore muscle from a dozen trips between the mine and town. It wasn’t just metal I was shaping. It was patience.
I smelted that last ingot slow, like I owed it an apology. The cutlass came out true in the end, blade singing when I tapped it. Sold it to Fletcher at the Provisioner for just enough to eat and restock. Now I’m nursing a tankard at the tavern, pack light but spirit full. Come first light, I’m heading back. There’s ore in that mountain yet, and I’ve got a mind to make something that lasts. Maybe even my own smithy one day. Till then—another round, and keep the tongs clean.
No replies yet.