Minoc’s wind cuts different when you’ve been underground for half a day. I stumbled out of the mine just past noon, shoulders aching, pickaxe chipped but still biting. The sun hit like a slap—too bright, too loud. Birds, cart wheels, some fool singing off-key near the well. I wiped the grit from my eyes and shouldered my pack, heavy with nearly fifty ingots. Felt good. Earned. I’ve known days when the rock gives up nothing but dust and blisters.
I stopped at the mine forge to hammer out a few pieces before heading into town. The coals were still warm from some other fool’s work—lucky for me. I stoked it slow, watching the embers bloom red again, like a heartbeat waking up. When the first ingot glowed orange, I laid it on the anvil and swung. Clang. The sound rings true when it’s right. But on the third strike, the tongs slipped. Not much—just a hair—but enough. The metal twisted sideways, and I cursed loud enough to scare a crow off the roof. Burned my forearm clean through the leather cuff. Sat down hard on the cracked stone step, sucking air through my teeth. That little slip cost me a good dagger’s worth of metal, maybe more. I stared at the warped lump cooling in the dirt. Stupid. Careless. But you don’t quit. You can’t. Not if you want to stand in front of Lord Blackthorn’s smithy with your head up.
So I fed it back into the fire. Let it melt down slow. Poured it into a brick, ugly but honest. By the time I limped into the blacksmith’s yard, gold jingling light in my pouch, I didn’t care about the loss. I cared that my hands still knew the weight of the hammer, that the forge in Minoc still answers when you call. Tomorrow, I’ll take the long path down to the deep shaft. Hear the rock down there sings when you strike it true. Might be a lie. But I’ll listen anyway.
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