Aye, the pick rang true today—solid, deep bites into the belly of the rock near Minoc’s west slope. I’d been at it near an hour, sweat stinging my eyes and the air thick with dust that tasted like old iron, when I finally cracked open a decent vein. Thirty-six swings, maybe more—I lost count after the third shift of my grip. My hands knew the rhythm before my mind did. Each strike sent a shiver up the haft, a dull thud that echoed in my teeth. I remember thinking how the ore looked almost sorry when it broke free—dark, stubborn chunks that gleamed faintly in the thin shafts of light slicing through the mine shaft. I gathered them quick, the rough stone scraping my palms, knowing the forge wouldn’t wait.
The walk back to the mine forge was short but heavy. Forty-three ingots now in my pack—nearly fifty if you count what I’d already banked—each one a small victory. But it was the fourth smelting run that stuck with me. The bellows groaned like an old man waking up, and the fire spat and hissed when I fed it coal. I fed in the last batch of ore—eight chunks, maybe—a little damp from the tunnel’s breath. They sizzled, then glowed, then bled into molten rivers inside the crucible. When I poured, the metal ran clean, golden-orange, filling four molds with a soft, singing hum. I remember the heat on my face, the way my gloves smoked when I pulled the tongs from the flames. For a moment, I just stood there, blinking against the sweat and the light, feeling like I’d wrestled something wild and won.
Selling off five stacks to old Harlan at the smithy felt good—real good. He didn’t haggle, just grunted and handed over coin. Felt like trust, that. But I’ll be back at the rock tomorrow. There’s a rhythm to it—the strike, the haul, the fire—that gets in your blood. And I’ve still got tools to temper, blades to shape. Minoc’s stone gives slow, but she gives true. And I’ve got time. And iron. And fire. That’s enough.
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