I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe rang true that morning in the Minoc mines—nine solid strikes, each one singing through the rock like a hymn from the earth itself. Dust clung to my beard, and the lantern flickered low, but I kept at it, shoulder burning, knuckles split and stinging where the haft had rubbed raw. Found a pocket deep in the eastern seam, rich and dark—pulled out enough ore to fill both packs and then some. By the time I trudged up into the cool Minoc air, sun just cresting the hills, I could feel the weight dragging at my hips, nearly three hundred stones of burden. But it was honest weight. Good weight.
The forge at the mine’s edge was already humming when I got there—someone else had beaten me to the fire, but they left it hot, thank the gods. I stacked the ore by the bellows and lit the coals proper, feeding them crushed rock like kindling. Eight rounds of smelting, one after the other, the heat pressing against my face like a living thing. I remember the third batch—tongs slipped, red-hot ingot clattering to the stone. I cursed loud enough to scare the crows off the ridge. Had to wait near ten minutes for it to cool enough to handle again. Felt every second in my bones. But I got it back in, and when the metal finally settled, smooth and heavy in my hand, something in my chest loosened. Eight ingots. Solid. Shiny. Mine.
Walked into town with nearly fifty in my pack, the metal clinking like a beggar’s cup. Sun high, sweat down my back, but I didn’t care. Passed old Mardoth at the blacksmith’s door—he gives me a nod, no words, but he knows. He took the lot without haggling, counted out silver that vanished quick into the bank. I stood there after, hand on the stone doorframe, feeling the cool shadow on my arm. Empty pack. Empty pockets. But not empty inside.
Tomorrow, I go back. The earth’s not done with me yet.
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