Minoc’s mine forge was still humming when I dragged myself back up from the tunnels, pickaxe slung over my shoulder like a dead man’s rifle. The air down below had that wet iron tang, the kind that clings to your beard and makes your teeth feel fuzzy. I’d been at it since dawn—swing, chip, load, repeat—until my arms burned and the stone sang back at every strike. Near fifty ingots in my pack now, heavy enough to make my belt creak with every step. I passed the old dwarven marker near the south shaft, the one carved with the face of some forgotten smith, and gave it a tap with my pick. Superstition, maybe. Or just a way to say, I’m still here too.
Up at the forge, the coals were banked but still glowing, like embers in a dragon’s throat. I dropped my pack with a thud that sent a cloud of red dust puffing into the air. One of the tongs snapped clean in half when I reached for it—cheap things, worn thin at the hinge. I cursed loud enough to make a passing mage jump, then just stood there, staring at the broken iron in my hands. Felt like bad omen, that. Like the work itself was turning against me. But I shoved the anger down, blew the coals to life, and started sorting the ore by hand, feeling each lump’s density, its promise. The heat on my face, the way the light danced orange on the stone walls—it reminded me why I stayed with this trade, even when the gold runs low and the pack feels like it’s full of boulders.
Sold off half the load to old Brenna at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. She didn’t haggle much, just nodded and said, “You look like hell, Grimm.” Paid me fair, though. Enough to eat for a week and buy a new set of tongs that won’t betray me mid-pour.
Tomorrow, I’m going back. But this time, I’m taking the west shaft. Heard there’s silver veins whispering down there, if you know how to listen.<|im_end|>
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