The pickaxe bit into the stone seam near Minoc’s lower quarry just as the sun crested the hills, casting long shadows that made the iron-rich rock gleam like frozen blood. My arms burned after the third strike—same arms that’ve swung this same tool a thousand times—but something in the rhythm felt off. The shaft’s splintered grip dug into my palm, and the next swing caught just wrong, glancing off the vein instead of biting deep. I cursed, spat into the dust, and wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. That’s when I heard it: a dull crack, not from the stone, but from the pick itself. The haft split clean through near the head, leaving me standing there like a fool with half a tool and a half-hearted purpose.
I sat on a flat stone and stared at the broken shaft, the grain of the wood frayed like old rope. Fifty-odd ingots sat heavy in my pack—nearly a day’s haul—and yet I couldn’t shake the emptiness of that broken handle. I thought of the forge back in Minoc, how the coals still hold warmth long after the bellows stop, how a good blacksmith knows when to let the metal rest. I carried the broken pick the whole way back, not because I had to, but because it felt wrong to leave it in the dirt.
By the time I reached the town, the sun had climbed high, and the forge smelled of old fire and iron. Old Man Haldor was there, stoking the coals like he did every morning, and he didn’t say a word when I set the pick on the anvil. He just nodded, handed me a fresh haft from the rack, and said, “Balance it true this time, lad.” I worked the wood slow, shaping the wedge, fitting it snug. The first strike of the hammer on the metal joint rang clear, and something in my chest loosened.
Come morning, I’ll return to that seam. But I’ll take two picks next time—one to swing, one to remember.<|im_end|>
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