Aye, it’s been a long day down in the stone belly near Minoc, where the air tastes like iron dust and your back learns the weight of every swing. I’d been at the seam near the mine forge since dawn, pickaxe biting into the rock with that familiar clink-clink-thud that settles into your bones after a while. Fifty times I struck, and fifty times the ore came free—good iron, mostly, though a few strikes rang hollow and sent my arms vibrating with frustration. The fifth blocked swing, though… that one stuck in my head. Pick caught in the crack, and for a moment, the whole world narrowed to the tremor in my wrists and the sweat stinging my eyes. I yanked it loose, cursed under my breath, and spat into the dirt. That’s when I noticed the stray ore near my boot—scavenged it up quick, one more lump for the pile.
By midday, I limped back to the blacksmith’s forge in Minoc, shoulders screaming, pack heavy with nearly fifty ingots. The heat of the forge hit me like a wall—dry, hungry heat that pulled the moisture from your skin before you even swung the hammer. I fed the flames, stacked the ore, and lit the bellows. Four smelts done, each one a dance of timing and temper. But it was the broken tongs that nearly broke me. Snapped clean in half on the third batch, red-hot iron clattering into the ash. I stood there, heart pounding, staring at that ruined tool. Fifty gold gone for a bad weld—my own weld. I’d made those tongs. Shoddy work, rushed. Shame burned hotter than the coals.
I sat on the anvil’s edge for a long minute, wiping soot on my apron, listening to the crickets outside. This trade… it’s not just strength or skill. It’s patience. It’s knowing when to walk away. Tomorrow, I’ll visit the vendor near Minoc Road North—sell what I’ve got, buy proper tongs, maybe beg a copper or two if the guard’s in a forgiving mood. But first, I’ll sit right here, drink this ale, and let my hands remember what the mind forgets.
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