I’ll tell you, there’s a rhythm to it—pick swinging into the dark seam of stone near the Minoc mines, that clink-clink ringing back at you like a stubborn bell. Twenty-one times I swung it today, right near that crooked boulder shaped like a gargoyle’s ear. Dust filled my nose, thick and dry as old flour, and my shoulders burned by the tenth strike. But it’s not the work that wears on you—it’s the waiting. Standing there at the mine forge, tossing another lump of ore into the flames, watching it hiss and spit while I counted seconds, not minutes. Fourteen times the fire turned sour, the ore clumping like wet ash. Fourteen. I near kicked the anvil once or twice.
But then—ah, then—one batch caught clean. The metal bloomed gold-orange in the heat, swirling like liquid sunset before settling into two smooth ingots. I pulled them with tongs still warm from yesterday’s use, the kind that’ve been in my pack so long they fit my grip like an old friend’s handshake. Felt the weight of them, solid and true, as I dropped them into my pack. Nearly fifty ingots now, rattling like coins in a drunkard’s pocket, each one a step.
I walked back toward the blacksmith in Minoc, boots dragging through the red clay, and passed old Greta sweeping her doorstep. She didn’t say much, just nodded, but that nod meant something. Like she knew I’d made it through another day without breaking. The bell above the smithy jingled like it always does, and I hefted the pack onto the counter. Even with empty pockets, I don’t feel poor. Not really. Tomorrow, I’ll go back. The stone’s still there. So am I.
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