Minoc’s forge was still humming when I stumbled in from the mines, pack near splitting with nearly fifty ingots pressing into my shoulders. The air smelled of soot and old iron, the kind of stink that clings to your beard and never really washes out. I’d been at it since dawn in the north ridge—swing after swing of the pickaxe biting into the rock face, each strike sending a jolt up my arms. Five times the pick just glanced off, useless, like the mountain itself was laughing at me. But then I hit a pocket—deep, rich ore that cracked open with a sound like thunder under stone. That moment, when the iron finally gave, something in my chest loosened. I remember kneeling there, fingers brushing the cold, glassy edges of the raw chunks, thinking how every one of them could become something true.
Back at the forge, I fed the ore into the fire, watching it glow like hell’s own eye. Smelting the first batch went smooth, but the second—damn thing sputtered out, the bellows clogged with ash. I cursed loud enough to make a passing guard glare. Then the tongs snapped halfway through shaping a breastplate, red-hot iron slipping and hissing into the trough. Ruined. Just like that. I stood there, sweat stinging my eyes, breath ragged, staring at the warped metal. Sixty skill in blacksmithing and still the tools betray me. But I started again. You do. That’s the only rule that matters.
Later, I sold a decent helm to old Brenna at the vendor stall near the east gate. She didn’t haggle, just tossed me three gold and a nod. “Better than last week,” she said. High praise. I bought bread and ale with one coin, sat on the steps, and watched the sun bleed out behind the cliffs.
Come morning, I’m heading back. The ridge isn’t done with me yet. And I’m not done with it.<|im_end|>
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