Another night, another pint at the Minoc tavern, and I’ll tell you, the weight of nearly fifty ingots in my pack still makes my shoulders ache even after I’ve offloaded them. Came up from the deep tunnels near the old mine forge just before dusk, hands raw, back stiff as an iron bar. You know that moment when you crack open a fresh vein and the stone sings under your pick? Last week it was iron, solid and dark; tonight it was copper—dull orange streaks in the rock, like rusted blood. Took me near three swings to loosen the first nugget, but once it gave, the rest came easier. I’d forgotten how the vibration runs up your arms, how your teeth rattle with each strike. There’s a rhythm to it, like hammering steel at the anvil—once you find it, you’re in the flow, and the world outside the flicker of your lantern just… vanishes.
But it wasn’t the digging that stayed with me. It was the walk back, sweat cooling on my neck, the pack groaning with ore, when I passed the old blacksmith’s workshop just outside Minoc. Lights were out, tools quiet, but I swear I could still smell the ghost of hot metal—charred oak, molten iron, the sharp tang of quenching oil. Made me think of my first week as an apprentice, when I dropped a pair of tongs into the coals and the master didn’t yell—he just looked at me, wiped his sooty hands on his apron, and said, “Every smith breaks something before he makes something.” I’ve broken plenty since then. Last month I cracked a hammer head. Last week, a batch of tongs bent like willow in a storm. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel the weight as a burden. Felt like promise.
Saw Old Man Harkin at the market gate, same as always. He didn’t haggle, just nodded, weighed my haul, and handed over the coin. That silence between us—it’s worth more than gold. Tomorrow, I’m taking a run to the mountains near the moonglow mines. Heard whispers of a new iron seam opening up. Might be nothing. But then again, so was I once.
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