Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, pack sagging like a drunkard against my back. I’d been down in the tunnels near the old iron vein—same spot I’ve worked since the spring thaw—hacking at the stone until my arms burned and the pick felt welded to my palm. The air down there’s always thick with dust and the ghost of old explosions, and tonight it clung to my skin like regret. But I kept swinging. Each strike sent a jolt up my arms, a dull ring through the pick’s haft, and then—clink—a fresh chunk of ore broke free. I remember the weight of it when I hefted it: cool, rough, promising. By the time I counted near fifty ingots in my pack, my shoulders were screaming.
Back at the forge, I stoked the coals until they glowed like sunrise through a storm. The hammer felt right in my grip—familiar, honest. I worked the bellows with my boot, sweat rolling down my temple, watching the iron bloom in the fire. That moment—when the metal softens, just before it yields—there’s no better feeling. It’s like it’s alive, talking to you. I lost a pair of tongs earlier in the week, cheap ones from the vendor near the blacksmith’s hall, and had to finish with a chipped pair I’d sworn to retire. Nearly dropped a good bar of steel, too. Felt the heat sting my knuckles when it slipped. Frustration? Aye. But I kept at it. There’s pride in the ache.
Sold the lot to Elayne at the vendor stall near the stables. She didn’t haggle—rare, that. Just counted out the coins with those steady hands of hers and said, “You look like you wrestled a troll, Grimm.” I probably did. Stood there a moment after, gold gone into the bank, pack light, staring at the empty leather. Strange, how heavy emptiness can feel.
Tomorrow, I’ll check the western tunnels. Rumor says someone found a fresh silver strike near the collapsed shaft. Might be nothing. But I’ll take my pick, my luck, and that battered second pair of tongs. They’ve earned their scars.<|im_end|>
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