Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, the late sun painting the stone walls the color of old blood. I’d been down in the iron veins near the mountain’s belly, hacking at the rock for near two hours straight. My arms ached like they’d been stretched on a rack, and every swing of the pickaxe echoed in my teeth. But it’s that third strike, always the third—when the rock finally cracks open and the vein glows faint in the torchlight—that makes it worth it. I remember kneeling there, fingers brushing the cold iron, feeling it hum under my touch like it was waiting. I filled my pack near fifty ingots deep, the weight pulling at my shoulders like old regrets.
Back at the forge, the coals were banked but not dead. I stoked them with a rusted poker, watching the embers rise like fireflies. The tongs were chipped—Jeb’s work, probably—and when I tried to pull the first ingot from the pile, it slipped and clanged against the anvil. That sound—it’s a musician’s curse, sharp and wrong. I cursed under my breath, wiped soot from my brow, and started over. Slow this time. The heat built, and soon the metal softened, glowing a soft orange that lit the cracks in my hands. I used to think I’d grow out of this—the grime, the ache, the endless repetition—but now I think I’d miss it if it were gone.
There’s something honest in shaping raw ore into something useful. Out there in the wilds, men with swords and spells take what they want, but down in the dark, with just a pick and your breath, you earn every flake of dust. I sold a stack to old Marna at the Minoc blacksmith. She barely looked up, just counted the coins into my palm. Heavy. Real. I bought a tankard of ale after, sat by the hearth, and felt the weight in my pack shift from burden to pride.
Tomorrow, I think I’ll try the west slope. Heard the iron runs purer there. Might need better tongs.
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