I’ll tell ye, there’s a certain rhythm to the pick meeting stone down in the mines near Minoc—clang, pause, clang—like a heartbeat in the dark. That’s what I was chasing, down in the tunnels where the air turns damp and the torches flicker low. I’d been at it near three hours, my arms burning, sweat stinging the cut on my brow from a rogue rockfall earlier. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy as a tax collector’s conscience, and still I swung. Each strike sent a jolt up the haft of the pick, rattling my teeth, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not after dying twice today and walking clear to Britain just to find no healer willing to spare a glance. Ghosts don’t mine, and I was determined not to stay one.
But it wasn’t the weight or the walk that nearly broke me—it was the tongs. Back at the mine forge, just outside the tunnel mouth, I set the anvil and lit the coals. The fire caught slow, spitting and hissing like a cornered snake, and when I finally got a bar hot enough to bend, the damn tongs snapped at the hinge. Just ping—like a snapped promise. I stared at the broken end, black metal curled like a dead leaf, and for a second I wanted to hurl the whole lot into the river. I’ve known loss before, but there’s something cruel about losing your tools when you’re so close to turning sweat into coin.
Instead, I limped into Minoc proper, ingots clanking with every step, and found Indira at the smithy. She didn’t ask about the blood on my sleeve. Just nodded, weighed the iron, and slid over a small pouch. Not much, but enough. I stood there, hands trembling, counting coppers and feeling the warmth of the forge still on my face. Tomorrow, I’ll make new tongs—better ones. Maybe even sell a few daggers. A man can’t live on resurrection attempts and beggary. He needs fire, metal, and something that holds.
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