Minoc’s mine forge reeks of soot and old iron, the kind of smell that clings to your beard and makes your eyes water even when the bellows aren’t going. I’d been swinging that pickaxe since dawn, my shoulder screaming with every strike—two dozen swings at one stubborn seam before the rock finally gave way. The pick rang out sharp that last time, like striking a bell, and a chunk of ore the size of a loaf broke free. I nearly dropped it, my hands slick with sweat and grit, but caught it against my thigh. That one piece alone probably weighed ten pounds, dark as dried blood and flecked with silver. I tossed it into the sack with the others, the weight shifting satisfyingly—nearly fifty ingots in my pack now, most still warm from the smelt.
I hauled the load up from the deep tunnel, boots slipping on loose shale, and fed them into the forge near the smithy’s back wall. The fire had died low, damn fool apprentice must’ve gone chasing rabbits again. Took me near ten minutes just to coax the flames back, stoking with one hand while I fed ore into the crucible with the other. When the metal finally glowed, I pulled the tongs—old things, warped from years of use—and the jaw snapped clean off mid-pour. Dropped a half-melted ingot right into the ash. Cursed loud enough to scare the crows off the roof. Had to reheat the whole mess, breathing in that bitter fume, my forearm twitching from the strain.
But when I finally laid the fresh ingot on the anvil, something settled in my chest. It wasn’t perfect—bubbled a little on one edge—but it was mine. I carried it down to Brog’s stall near the blacksmith’s square, the one with the chipped blue sign and the dog that growls at everyone but me. He gave me six gold, didn’t even haggle, just nodded and said, “Good weight.” Felt like a blessing.
Come morning, I’m heading back. That broken tongs needs fixing—or replacing. Maybe I’ll craft a new pair myself. If the ore keeps running true, I might even afford better steel for them.
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