Aye, this body’s earned every ache in it tonight. I was back in the tunnels beneath Minoc again, just past the old miners’ marker where the air turns thick and the torchlight won’t reach far. It’s quiet down there—too quiet—like the mountain’s holding its breath. My pickaxe bit into the seam, sparks flying where iron kissed stone, and each strike sent a jolt up my arms. I counted maybe thirty solid hits before the first chunk broke free, a jagged hunk of iron ore that clanked dully on the damp rock floor. The weight of the pick’s handle, slick with sweat and soot, felt honest. Real. Up here in the tavern, with the roar of drunks and the smell of spilled ale, I can still feel that vibration in my bones.
I hauled near fifty ingots in my pack by the time I surfaced, my shoulders burning like they’d been forged in the same fire I stoked back at the mine forge. I stopped there first—just off the path, near the crumbling stone wall where the old smith used to work before he vanished or died, no one’s sure. I fired it up with dried bracken, the flames catching slow and hungry. The ingots glowed cherry-red, softening under the hammer. One stubborn bar warped on the third strike—damn near flew out of the tongs. I cursed, dropped it in the quenching bucket. Water hissed like a wounded thing. That one’s ruined, but the rest held true. There’s pride in salvaging what others might’ve tossed.
Selling them was another trial. Wasted half the hour trying to reach the tinker near the Provisioner’s south stall—some fool blocked the path with a cart, and the guild doors were shut tight. Ended up at the Miners Guild, trading with old Mavik, who barely looked up from his ledger. Gave me a fair price, though. No gold in my pouch now, true, but the weight’s shifted—emptier pack, heavier pockets in spirit.
Come dawn, I’ll go back. Not for the coin. Not just for the craft. But for that moment when the rock gives way, and the metal sings under the hammer. That’s when I remember I’m still here. Still shaping something.
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