I’ll tell you, the air down in that Minoc seam was thick enough to chew—damp stone, iron dust, and the faint tang of old sweat clinging to the walls. My pickaxe rang out again and again against the dark vein, each strike sending a jolt up my arms and into my shoulders. Two good strikes, then a third that caught just right—crack—and a nugget the size of my thumb broke free. I held it up in the lantern light, black as sin but heavy with promise. That’s when I remembered old Tarnok’s warning: “Iron don’t care how tired you are, boy. It gives only what you earn.” I’d laughed then. Not anymore.
I lugged the ore back to the mine forge near the camp, the weight pulling at my pack straps. Nearly fifty ingots in there now, each one a testament to blistered palms and aching lungs. The little forge flickered when I arrived, barely more than coals under ash. I kicked it to life, fed it charcoal, and set the ore to smelt. The heat built slow, but once it caught, the glow was like a heartbeat—orange in the soot-streaked dark. I pulled the tongs from my belt, the ones with the chipped handle I keep meaning to replace, and reached in. One ingot shifted, red-hot, and—snap—the left jaw gave way. I cursed loud enough to wake the dead, nearly lost the whole batch. Had to fish it out with a bent poker and pray it didn’t scatter. My hands shook more from frustration than fatigue.
Sitting there on the anvil stump, watching the metal cool, I thought about how this life grinds you down like stone under a hammer. But it shapes you, too. I sold the lot to Elira at the Minoc blacksmith this morning—she didn’t haggle, just nodded and handed over gold. Not much, but enough to eat and buy better tongs. She said, “You look like hell, Grimm.” I probably did. But I slept deep last night, the kind of sleep only earned with sweat.
Come dawn, I’m heading back. That vein ain’t done with me yet.
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