Minoc’s mine forge was still humming when I stumbled back in last night, shoulders aching like I’d been wrestling drakes instead of rock. The air in there—thick with the ghost of coal and hot iron—always hits me like a wall after a long shift underground. I dropped my pack near the anvil, and it clunked heavier than usual. Nearly fifty ingots, most of them iron, pulled my belt low. I counted eighteen trips to the smelter’s fire, each one feeding chunks of dull ore into its maw, watching them bleed into something useful. My hands still smell of sulfur and sweat, the kind that lingers no matter how much lye soap you use.
But it wasn’t the weight that wore me down. It was the tongs. Old things, handed down from Jerek the Red, or so the story goes. One of the jaws snapped clean off when I was pulling a fresh bar of iron from the coals—crack, just like that. I cursed loud enough to wake the rats in the rafters. There I was, one-handed grip on red-hot metal, dancing to keep it from touching the stone floor. I nearly dropped it twice before I got it to cool on the sand. Sat on the bench after, staring at the broken tongs like they’d betrayed me. Felt like the whole forge was laughing.
Still, I managed one good blade before the hour turned. A simple cleaver, the kind cooks fight over at the market. I forged it slow, let the hammer fall just right—ting, ting, ting—each strike singing back at me. When I handed it to Old Marna at the blacksmith shop near the stables, she didn’t haggle. Just nodded, dropped five gold in my palm. Said, “You’ve got the touch, Grimm. Don’t let the forge break your back.”
I’ll be back tomorrow. Might mend those tongs. Or maybe I’ll just make a new pair. There’s iron enough in my pack to start over ten times.
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