Grimm's Journal — Apr 14

Another dusk in Minoc, and I’m nursing a tankard at the Cat of Nine Tails, hands still black at the knuckles despite scrubbing. The forge near the mineshaft’s mouth had me sweating iron fumes all afternoon—three bellows of charcoal heat just to get the last batch of ore to flow right. You know that moment when the metal finally gives, not with a crack, but a soft, molten sigh? That’s what I live for. I’d hauled up nearly fifty ingots from the tunnel just south of the blacksmith shop, my pack sagging like a drunk off his stool, each step creaking in my hips. But it wasn’t the weight that wore me down—it was the tongs.

Halfway through shaping a doublet of pig iron at the mine forge, the left jaw snapped clean off. Cheap things, bought off a peddler near the Yew road. I cursed so loud a rabbit bolted from the brush. There I stood, red-hot bar weeping sparks onto the stone, and nothing to grip it but the edge of my apron. For a heartbeat, I thought of tossing the whole thing into the dark. But I wedged the bar between two anvil horns, twisted it slow with pliers—ruined the temper, most like—and finished the pour. Felt every second of it, the way the heat licked my face, the smell of singed hair, the stupid pride in not letting it beat me.

I sold the salvageable bars to Elias at the Minoc smithy. He didn’t haggle much, just nodded at the pile and said, “You’ve been fighting the mountain again.” Paid me 38 gold, barely enough for new tongs and a week’s charcoal. But there’s something in that exchange—the callus on his palm when we shook, the way he left a mug of cider on the counter without mentioning it. Reminded me why I stay near Minoc, even when the vein runs thin and the sky turns the color of cold iron.

Come morning, I’m back in the tunnel. Not for riches. Not even for gold. But for the next bar, the next strike of the pick, the next chance to make something hold.