The Minoc mines always smell the same this deep—damp stone, old sweat, and something metallic that clings to the back of your throat. I swung the pick again, and again, each strike jolting up my arms like a warning. At tile (2459,558), the iron seam was stubborn—tight and unyielding—but I knew it was there. I could feel it in the way the rock rang different under the steel, a duller chime than the worthless granite. My arms burned, but I kept at it. A miner learns to listen to the stone, not just smash it. After what felt like half the day—though the sun hadn’t moved a hand’s breadth above—I pried loose the last chunk. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack already, and the weight pulled at my shoulders like old regrets.
I trudged back to the mine forge, the heat of it hitting me before I even stepped inside. Flames danced in the pit, hungry and familiar. I stacked the raw ore beside the anvil—dark, veiny lumps the color of dried blood—and fed the fire. The tongs were worn, the grip slipping once as I pulled a glowing bar free. That moment—when the iron glowed cherry-red and the tongs nearly dropped it into the ash—something caught in my chest. Not fear, exactly. More like shame. I’ve shaped steel for twenty years, and here I was, nearly losing a perfect bar to the dirt because the tools were failing. I clenched the handle tighter, realigning my grip, feeling the blister on my palm split anew.
But the metal held. I hammered it true, each strike ringing clean in the soot-stained chamber. There’s a peace in that sound, in the rhythm of it—just man, anvil, and fire. I thought about the last time I sold to Brenna at the blacksmith’s in Minoc. She didn’t haggle, just nodded and said, “Good weight, Grimm,” like she always does. That small trust matters more than coin when you’ve got none in your pocket.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the new set of tongs from my pack to the forge before I swing the pick. Even iron yields to patience—but only if your hands are ready to meet it.
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