I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe sang true today—twenty-nine times it bit into the stone down in the deep veins near Minoc, each strike ringing like a bell struck in the dark. My arms still hum with it. There’s a rhythm to mining, a pulse in the swing, and when you find it, the world narrows to just the flicker of your lantern, the grit in your teeth, and that sweet clink as the iron yields. I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack by midafternoon, each one heavy with promise. But it wasn’t until I stood at the mine forge, sweat stinging my eyes and the sun just beginning to dip behind the hills, that the real moment came.
I’d just smelted the last batch—nine good ingots pulled from the fire—and my tongs snapped clean in two as I pulled them from the coals. Cheap things, worn thin from too many trips, too many heats. I cursed loud enough for the bats to hear, nearly dropping the red-hot lumps onto my boot. There I stood, barehanded, staring at molten iron that’d burn a man’s flesh to bone. For a heartbeat, I thought of dumping them, letting the work go to slag. But I fetched a spare pair from my pack—dull, bent, but whole—and eased them in. The metal glowed like dawn in a storm, pulsing with heat that warmed my face even through the soot. That’s when I remembered Old Harn, the smith who taught me: “Iron don’t care how tired you are, boy. It only answers to patience.” Felt like he was there, grinning in the smoke.
Now I’m sitting in the Minoc tavern, gold jingling light in my pouch—twelve coins lighter than I’d hoped, but still enough to eat and buy better tongs tomorrow. The weight’s gone from my pack, sold off to a familiar face at the blacksmith’s bench, but the ache in my shoulders? That’ll stay. Funny how the body remembers what the mind wants to forget. Still, I’ll be back at first light. There’s a vein down there that sings differently—dark, deep, almost blue. Might be mythril. Might be nothing. But I’ll swing for it anyway.
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