The pickaxe rang out in that hollow way it does deep in the Minoc mine, each strike sending a shiver up my arms and a puff of stone-dust into the stale air. I’d been at it near an hour, chipping at a stubborn vein that gave up only three or four chunks of ore at a time, and my back was starting to talk to me like an old, nagging uncle. But I kept at it—there’s a rhythm to mining, a kind of stubborn conversation between man and rock. You don’t win by strength, you win by outlasting. When I finally hauled myself back to the surface, the sun near blinding after the dim tunnels, I counted nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy as a promise.
I stopped first at the mine forge—just outside, where the anvil’s still warm from the last smith’s work. I lit the coals myself, fed them with spare kindling I keep in my belt, and got to smelting. The third batch was the charm: four clean ingots pulled from the fire, glowing like captured suns. I set them down with the others, and that’s when it happened—the tongs snapped. Just like that. Cheap things, bought off a peddler in Trinsic years back. The crack echoed off the stone walls, and I just stood there, staring at the broken handle in my hand, one glowing ingot cooling fast on the dirt. I cursed, then laughed. Only in Minoc would a man feel both triumphant and foolish in the same breath.
I carried the weight down to the blacksmith near the stables, where old Brant runs the counter with one eye on the door and the other on his ledger. He didn’t say much—just nodded when I dumped the ingots on the counter and counted out the coins. Seventy-six gold heavier, and still I felt the weight in my shoulders. But it’s not just about the coin. It’s the heat of the forge on your face, the smell of hot metal, the way the hammer sings true when you’re in the groove.
Tomorrow, I’ll buy better tongs. For now, I’ll sit here, drink this ale, and let my hands remember the work.
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