I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe handle’s still burning in my palms from yesterday’s dig down near the old Minoc vein—same spot where the rock turns soft as rotten bread if you hit it just right. Seven times I swung into that seam, each strike sending a jolt up my arms, but it wasn’t the work that wore me down. It was the silence. No one down there but me and the echo of my own breath, and even the rats had given up on that tunnel. Dust clung to my beard, and the lantern sputtered like it wanted to quit too. But on the seventh strike, the stone cracked open like a promise, spilling a glimmer of raw iron into my waiting sack. Felt heavy in my hands—nearly fifty ingots by the time I finished, though I couldn’t sell a one where I needed to. Went to the smithy near the arms shop, only to find old Brennok had locked up early. Three times I circled the block, sweat cooling on my back, hoping he’d appear.
Then came the beggin’—aye, I said it. Stood outside the Minoc bank, pack slumped at my feet, while proper folk stepped around me like I was a puddle in their way. Two coppers tossed my way, one with a curse, one with a sigh. I took both. Shame sat hotter than the forge ever did. But it wasn’t the lack of coin that stung—it was the weight of those ingots, still in my pack, still unsold, still mine. I thought of the blacksmith’s fire, how it roars when fed right, how it turns cold iron into something strong. I’ve fed that fire before. I’ve shaped blades, mended armor, earned honest silver. But not yesterday.
This morning, I dropped the junk—bent nails, scrap brass, a cracked hammer—just to lighten the load. Forty-seven stones gone, but the real burden’s still there. I’m heading back to Noella later. Not for boots, but to ask straight—does she know anyone needing tools forged? I’ve still got strength in my arms and a mind for the craft. Maybe the fire’s not done with me yet.
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