I’ll tell ye, there’s a rhythm to swinging a pick that gets in your bones after a while—like the mine itself is breathing beneath your feet. Down in the Minoc tunnels today, torchlight flickering off wet stone, I found that groove again. The air was thick with dust and the sour tang of old iron, and every strike sent a little jolt up my arms, but I didn’t mind. That third vein near the collapsed shaft—past the one with the cracked timber support—was singing. The rock gave way easy, and the ore clinked into my sack like loose teeth. Felt good. Honest work.
But it wasn’t till I hauled myself up to the surface, pack groaning with nearly fifty ingots, that the real moment hit. I’d stoked the mine forge myself, fed it with charcoal from last week’s batch, and stood there as the metal glowed cherry-red. It wasn’t just heat—it was promise. The kind that makes a man forget the ache in his shoulders. I remember leaning in, sweat stinging my eyes, watching the slag rise like amber tears. Then—snap—the tongs I’d been using for years gave out. Bent clean at the hinge. I nearly dropped the billet into the dirt. Cursed so loud a rabbit bolted from the brush nearby. For a second, I just stood there, staring at that broken iron, feeling like I’d lost an old friend.
Funny, ain’t it? How a tool can mean more than metal. I ended up selling the lot to old Harlan at the Minoc blacksmith—he gave me a fair weight, didn’t haggle like some do—and even tossed in a fresh pair of tongs, thicker stock. Said he remembered when his first pair broke, too. “Means you’ve earned it,” he told me, tapping his temple. I sat on the step awhile after, gold in my pouch and soot in my nails, watching the sun bleed red over the hills. Might take the road to Trinsic tomorrow. Hear they’ve got a new anvil down at the smithy there. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll bring a flask to toast the next pair that breaks.
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