Aye, the forge in Minoc’s miners’ guild is still warm tonight, and so’s my back—though not from the fire. Spent the day shuttling between the deep veins west of town and that anvil near the south entrance, the one with the chipped horn that catches my apron every time I lean in. Must’ve hauled nearly fifty ingots in my pack by late afternoon, each one clinking like a promise with every step. The weight settled into my shoulders like an old argument I couldn’t shake. I remember standing just past the mine entrance, sweat stinging my eyes, the pickaxe slick in my grip. One more strike, I told myself. Just one more. And then the rock split open with a sound like thunder in a jar—deep, hollow, right. That’s when you know. Not luck. Not prayer. Just the earth finally giving up what it owes.
I sat there on the damp stone, breathing hard, watching the torchlight dance over the fresh vein. Iron, mostly, but a flash of something darker near the back—maybe copper, maybe better. Didn’t matter just then. What mattered was the silence after the pick fell still, that rare quiet where even the rats hold their breath. I pulled out my flask, took a swig of water warm as blood, and thought about Old Tarn, the smith who taught me to read the ore by the way it sang when struck. “Most folks hear rock,” he’d said. “You listen for the song.” Funny how a man’s voice sticks with you long after his hammer’s gone cold.
Sold the lot to Elayne at the provisioner’s south counter—she’s the only one who doesn’t haggle like I’m trying to cheat her. Took the weight off my pack and felt ten years lift with it. Still got enough gold now to last a fortnight, maybe buy new tongs. Mine snapped two days back, jaws twisted clean off in the coals. Nearly wept then, but not today. Tonight, I’ll sleep deep, and tomorrow? Maybe I’ll follow that dark flash to its source. Could be nothing. Could be the motherlode. Either way, the pick’s ready, and the song’s still playing—if you know how to listen.
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