Aye, this back’s been singing me a sore tune all evening, and I can’t say it doesn’t deserve the rest. Was down in the Minoc mines again before dawn, when the tunnels still hold that damp chill and the flicker of your lantern makes shadows dance like old ghosts. Forty trips my pick made into the stone—forty cracks echoing off the walls, each one a little prayer for iron. There’s a rhythm to it, once you find it. The pick bites, stone grumbles, and if the gods are kind, a lump of ore comes loose. Felt each strike in my arms, down to the bone, but I kept at it. The mine forge up the ridge was cold when I got there, just embers breathing under ash. Took near half an hour coaxing it back to life, blowing on those coals like I was whispering secrets to the fire.
Then came the smelting—four good batches, each one hissing and spitting as the raw stone gave up its metal. I watched the molten glow drip into the mold, that deep orange heart of it, and I swear, there’s peace in that light. Not the peace of silence, but the peace of work done right. I wiped sweat with my sleeve, tasted soot on my lip, and thought, This is honest heat. But the tongs—I’d been meaning to fix them—finally snapped on the last pour. Just twisted apart in my hand like old bread. Nearly lost the whole ingot. Had to finish it with a spare pair, dull and clumsy, but it held.
Walked into town with nearly fifty ingots weighing down my pack, boots crunching on the road. The blacksmith’s shop door creaked the same as ever. Old Man Roran didn’t say much, just nodded when I dumped them on the counter. Counted out 87 gold, coin by slow coin. Enough. Not rich, but enough to eat, to mend the tongs, to buy another night at the tavern and one more day in the dark.
Tomorrow, I’ll check the bank again—kept getting turned away earlier, like the system itself was tired of me. But after that? Back to the vein. There’s more iron in those stones, and my hands still know the song.
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