Minoc’s mine forge was thick with the smell of wet stone and old smoke when I crawled out of the tunnel, pack nearly splitting at the seams. Nearly fifty ingots in there, all iron, all hauled up from the belly of the rock below Vesper. My shoulders burned like they’d been lashed with hot wire, and my hands—Christ, my hands were raw. One fingernail split clean down to the quick when I jammed it against the pickaxe handle earlier. Didn’t notice till I saw the smear on the stone. Blood and sweat make a slicker mix than you’d think.
I dropped the pack near the anvil and just stood there, listening to the hiss of damp ore hitting the fire. The forge was still warm from the last smith, whoever he was—someone left tongs in the coals, damn fool, and they’d warped into a useless curl. I fished them out with a poker, cursing under my breath. That’s when it hit me: I’d been swinging that pick for six straight hours, same rhythm, same scrape and clang, and for what? Gold in the bank? A little weight in the pockets? Felt like I was digging my own grave, one shovelful at a time. The heat from the coals licked at my face, and I stared into the fire like it might give me an answer.
I ended up selling the lot to Elias at the Minoc blacksmith—good man, pays fair, doesn’t haggle like some. He grunted when he hefted my pack, said I’d pulled more than most do in a day. Gave me enough coin to eat for a week and buy a new pair of gloves. Stood there a moment after he paid me, watching the sun bleed red over the hills west of the city. Thought about walking north, maybe try the mines near Trinsic. Hear the iron’s purer there. Or maybe just drink tonight and let my hands forget the weight of the pick. But you know how it is—come morning, the stone calls, and I’ll answer.
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