I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe bites different when your shoulders are screaming and the tunnel’s gone quiet. Was down in the Minoc hills, near that crooked seam where the stone folds like old leather, and I’d been swinging since dawn. Dust thick in the air, clinging to the sweat on my neck, each strike sending a jolt up my arms. Forty-eight ingots in my pack already—felt like a sack of bones strapped to my back—and still I swung. The iron wasn’t rich, but it was steady. One more vein, I kept telling myself. One more vein and I’ll call it.
But it was that last strike that nearly broke me. Hit the rock just right—or wrong—and the pick glanced, shoulder twisting, handle snapping back into my palm hard enough to sting tears to my eyes. I dropped it, cursed so loud the bats fluttered in the corner. Sat there on my knees, breathing stone-dust and shame, staring at the fresh chip I’d torn from the wall. Just a palm-wide patch of silver ore, glinting like mocking stars. Took me three tries to get the tongs right, my hands still shaking. That’s when you feel it—not just tired, but hollow. Like the mountain’s been mining you instead.
I dragged myself up to the mine forge just past midday, the pack heavier with every step. Fired it up slow, coals breathing back to life like an old friend with a grudge. The heat was a relief, honest—it soaked into my joints, made the chill of the tunnels retreat. Worked the silver in silence, no hammer song, just the hiss and groan of stubborn metal yielding. By the time I hauled the ingots into town, my boots were dust and my purse was light—sold the lot to Haldor at the blacksmith’s stall. He didn’t haggle much, just nodded, said, “You look like hell, Grimm.” Ain’t often kindness sounds like that.
Tomorrow? Might skip the hills. Might try my luck near the old copper vein south of the road. Or maybe I’ll just sit by the forge and let the fire talk for once. But not yet. Not while there’s still weight in my pack and a pick in my hand.
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