The pickaxe bit into the seam at the Minoc mine forge just as the sun crested the ridge, painting the stone in long, cold shadows. I’d been at it since before dawn, shoulders burning, knuckles split and crusted with dried blood where the handle had rubbed raw. Each swing echoed like a heartbeat in the narrow tunnel—clang, clang, clang—until my arms went numb and the rhythm took over. Seventeen trips down that shaft last week alone, and still no sign of the deep iron veins the old-timers swore were here. But today, something gave. A dull, hollow crack, and the stone split open like a ripe melon, spilling a cluster of raw iron into my waiting sack. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack by midday, heavy as a guilty conscience.
I dragged myself back to the surface, sweat stinging my eyes, the weight pulling at my hips with every step. The forge near the blacksmith’s shop was unattended—luck smiled, for once—so I fired it up, tossing in coal until the flames roared blue at the edges. The ingots hissed when they hit the heat, warping slightly, their edges glowing like dying stars. I forged a pair of tongs myself, clumsy but serviceable, though the handle bent halfway through shaping a breastplate. Felt the frustration rise like bile—so close, and yet the metal fought me, refusing to yield. I cursed, tossed the ruined piece into the scrap bin, and started again, slower this time, letting the heat do the talking.
Selling to Veda later, her stall tucked between the baker and the fletcher, was almost peaceful. She didn’t haggle, just nodded, handed over a small pouch. No gold to my name before that, and now enough to last a few days, maybe buy better tools. Her hands were calloused like a smith’s, her eyes tired but kind. I stood there a moment, feeling the weight lift—not just from my pack, but from my chest.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back. Not for the gold, not even for the craft. It’s the crack of stone giving way, the way the metal remembers fire—that’s what keeps me swinging.
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