Minoc’s mine forge was still humming when I dragged myself back in, sweat stinging my eyes and my arms aching like I’d been wrestling trolls. The air inside was thick with the smell of coal and hot iron, that familiar bite of sulfur curling from the bellows. I dropped the pickaxe by the anvil—handle splintered near the head again—and peeled off my gloves. My palms were raw, cracked like old leather, but I barely noticed until I caught the glint of the last ingot I’d pulled from the smelter. Twenty minutes of feeding ore into that hungry fire, watching the slag bubble and spit, just for one lump of decent iron. Worth it, though. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack now, heavy enough to make my shoulders burn with every step from the mines beneath the city.
I remember standing there, tongs in hand, watching the metal glow orange in the coals. The heat pressed against my face like a living thing, and for a second, I thought I heard Old Man Harken’s voice—“Patience, boy, iron don’t rush.” He taught me at the blacksmith near Trinsic, back when I thought strength was in the swing, not the wait. I pulled the bar too soon once, years ago. Bent it all to hell. Tonight, I waited. Let the metal breathe. When I finally pulled it free, it held true—no twist, no split. I brought the hammer down once, twice, just to hear that clean clang, solid and pure.
Selling to Elayne at the Minoc smithy tomorrow—if she’s there. She pays fair, and she never flinches at the soot on my tunic. Last time, she tossed me a skin of cider and said, “You look like death warmed over.” I laughed, but I took it. That’s the thing no one tells you: it’s not the ore, not the gold, it’s the people who remember your face. The ones who hand you cider when you’re too tired to speak.
Come morning, I’ll head back down. That vein near the eastern shaft’s still singing. I can feel it in the stone when I tap it. And if I’m lucky, I’ll pull enough to fix this pack strap and buy a new pair of tongs. These ones are rusting through at the hinge.
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