Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, shoulders aching like I’d been wrestling trolls instead of rock. The air hung thick with the ghost of coal smoke and scorched metal, the kind that gets in your sinuses and stays there for days. I dropped my pick near the anvil—handle splintered, steel chipped from hitting that cursed iron seam too hard—and stood for a long moment just breathing in the quiet. No hammer ringing, no ore cracking under pressure. Just the faint hiss of cooling stone and the drip of condensation from the rafters. I could’ve lit the bellows, started working the last of my haul, but I didn’t. Something about the stillness felt earned.
I’d been down in the tunnels near the north shaft since before dawn, chipping away at a stubborn vein. The pick rang every time it bit—clang, clang, clang—a rhythm that gets in your bones until you’re moving like a machine. My hands blistered, then bled, then numbed. By the time I pried loose the last chunk, nearly fifty ingots weighed down my pack, each one a small fortune to a man who’s slept on stone more nights than not. I remember the exact moment the pick slipped—hit the rock at a bad angle, sent a jolt up my arm like lightning. I nearly dropped it. Cursed loud enough the bats stirred in the dark. But I kept swinging. That’s the thing no one tells you: it’s not strength that makes a miner, it’s stubbornness. The kind that says one more strike, even when your back screams and your palms are raw.
I didn’t sell at the blacksmith—old Man Harken wasn’t in, shutters still closed. Instead, I sat on the step, pack heavy behind me, and watched the sun bleed over the hills east of town. Thought about the hearth in my shack, how the roof’s gone soft in two places. Thought about copper, maybe even silver, if I can find a new seam. This life grinds you down, but it also builds. Every strike leaves something behind—dust, yes, but also shape. Purpose.
Come morning, I’m taking the southern tunnel. Heard there’s a glint of mithril in the lower strata. And if not? Well. I’ve still got this pick. And one good arm left.<|im_end|>
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