Minoc’s mine forge was thick with the stink of sulfur and sweat, the air near the bellows tasting like burnt hair. I’d been at it since dawn—swing, chip, swing—my pickaxe biting into the gray-black stone at (2568, 482), the rhythm almost prayer-like. For a while, the ore came easy. One strike, two, then a clean fracture sending a nugget skittering across the floor. I’d pocketed nearly fifty ingots by midday, though some swings rang hollow, the pick bouncing off empty pockets where veins once ran. Felt like punching ghosts.
Then, on what should’ve been just another swing, the pick stuck. Not jammed—stuck, like the mountain had grabbed it. I leaned into the shaft, boots scraping on loose shale, and finally wrenched it free. The stone split wide, revealing a seam so rich it glittered even in the dim torchlight. I dropped to a knee and scraped at it with my glove—cold, dense, real. Smelted eight good ingots from that single haul, the crucible hissing as the slag bubbled off. But the tongs gave out on the fifth, the rivet snapping clean. Had to finish the batch with the spare pair, the grip too loose, holding my breath each time I lifted the molten bloom. One slip and it’s a ruined pour, or worse—burnt hands.
I stood there, forge glow painting the walls red, thinking how this craft never lets you rest. You win a little, the mountain takes back more. But when it gives? When the iron flows clean and the weight settles in your pack just right? That’s the lie we live for. Later, I sold off two armloads to Old Man Harrin at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. He didn’t haggle—rare as rain in winter—and counted out 184 gold without looking up. Said I looked like hell. Maybe I did.
Tomorrow, I’m heading west. Heard whispers of a new seam opening near the hills. Might need better tongs. Might need a new pick. But I’ll bring the weight. Always do.
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