Minoc’s forge smoke stings the eyes this time of evening, thick as the sweat on my back after a full turn at the pick. I’d been down in the earth near the mountain pass, where the stone breathes cold and the ore veins run deep. Fifty-two strikes that found purchase, each one ringing true through the handle and up my arms—solid, familiar. But ten times the pick bounced off like the mountain itself was laughing at me, stone too stubborn or my aim too tired. By the time I hauled myself topside, my pack sagged with nearly fifty ingots, heavy enough to make my shoulders burn with every step toward town.
I stoked the mine forge just outside the city gate, the kind of fire that doesn’t care if you’re worn down—it only answers to patience and bellows. One of the tongs snapped mid-work, the weld gone brittle from too many heats. Damn thing gave way with a screech, dropping a white-hot bar straight into the ash. I cursed loud enough to scare a passing dog. For a moment, I just stared at that ruined iron, glowing like a dying ember, thinking how easy it’d be to walk away, let the fire die out, sell the lot as raw ore and call it a day. But Minoc’s forges don’t forgive laziness, and I’ve seen softer men than me break trying to take the easy path.
So I cooled the bar, reheated it slow, and started over—hammer falling in rhythm with the anvil’s song. Each strike shaped more than the metal; it shaped the thought in my head. I sold a batch to Elaina at the smithy, the one who always wipes her hands on her apron before counting gold. She gave me a nod, not a word, but that’s worth more than flattery in these parts. Feels like I’m inching toward something—maybe not mastery, not yet, but something close to honesty in the work.
Tomorrow, I’ll return to the deep seam. And this time, I’m bringing a spare set of tongs.
No replies yet.