Iron in the Grit

A dull arc of rusted metal caught my eye beneath a drain along the alley wall. Half-buried in packed stone. I dropped low and drove my claws beneath the curved flank. Hard-packed gravel fought back with stubborn friction. I braced my boots, locked my forearms, and wrenched upward. The earth broke with a dry scrape. A heavy forged iron horseshoe tore free into the daylight. Dense, tempered metal, scarred by stone and hammer blows. I scraped the caked clay from the nail holes with my claw tip. Balanced weight. A true relic of forged endurance. I tuck the iron into my belt. A worthy prize from the street.