Minoc’s forge was humming like a beehive that afternoon, the air thick with the smell of coal smoke and hot metal. I’d just come up from the mines near the mountain pass, pack groaning under nearly fifty ingots, my shoulders raw from the straps. The sun was high, but down in that pit, it’s always twilight—damp stone, flickering torchlight, the constant clink-clink of pick against ore. I’d swung that pick near a hundred times today, maybe more. Each strike sent a little jolt up my arms, and by the end, my hands were blistered even through the gloves. But there’s a rhythm to it, you know? Like breathing. You learn to feel the stone, to know when it’s about to give. That last vein—deep in the western shaft—I hit it just right. A clean crack, and the rock split open like a ripe melon, spilling rich, dark ore across the floor. I remember crouching there, brushing dust from a hunk of iron with my thumb, feeling the cold grain of it, thinking, This one’s good. This one’ll make something true.
Back at the forge, I fed the coals until they glowed white, stoked that fire like it owed me coin. I’d been working on a batch of tongs—needed proper ones since the last pair snapped on a stubborn bar of steel. Pride in your tools, that’s what old Harkan always said before he vanished from the smithy. I heated, hammered, folded, cooled. The rhythm of the anvil became its own kind of prayer. But when I reached for the tongs to adjust the latest ingot, the handle crumbled—just broke clean off. I nearly cursed loud enough to wake the dead. There I was, sweat stinging my eyes, hands trembling from heat and effort, staring at that useless piece of iron in my grip. Felt like the whole day had cracked with it.
I sat on the anvil’s edge for a long minute, watching the flames dance. That broken tongs… it wasn’t just metal. Felt like every clumsy swing, every dinged helmet, every time I’d sold ore instead of shaping it—catching up. But then I looked at the ingots, lined up like soldiers against the wall, and thought, I pulled that from the dark. I made that into something that weighs true. Maybe tomorrow I’ll pour a mold. Maybe a sword. Or just better tongs. Either way, I’ll be back at the anvil by dawn.
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