I’ll tell you, the pickaxe biting into that stone at the east mine wasn’t just work—it was conversation. Each strike sent a jolt up my arms, the iron head chipping away at the stubborn seam, and after a dozen swings, the rock finally cracked open like a stubborn walnut. I felt it more than I heard it—a deep, hollow thunk that meant ore was close. My hands were raw, the leather gloves split at the seams from yesterday’s grind, but I kept at it. By the third vein, I’d pried loose nearly fifty ingots, their weight pulling at my pack like guilt. I could feel every step back toward Minoc, the sun beating down on my neck as I trudged past the carpenter’s shop, the tinker’s smoke curling into the sky.
I dropped the ore at the bank first—couldn’t risk losing it to some fool brigand near the road—but it was the forge I was craving. The heat of the blacksmith’s workshop hit me like a wall when I stepped in, the air thick with the smell of scorched coal and old iron. I’d been running low on tongs lately, and one snap too many had left me cursing over a half-finished blade last week. So this time, I took my time. I heated the billet slow, watching the metal glow cherry-red, then white, until it pulsed like a living thing. Then—crack—the tongs gave again, just as I pulled it from the flame. Cheap things, bought off a traveling vendor in a hurry. I nearly threw them into the coals in anger, but caught myself. Wasted metal’s a sin, and anger ruins the strike.
Instead, I cooled the piece, re-gripped with a spare pair I’d stashed behind the anvil, and started again. There’s a rhythm to it—the breath before the hammer falls, the way the sparks fly like startled stars. By the time I finished, the sword had a clean edge and a balanced weight, and I even managed a crude UO etched near the guard, just for spite. Sold it to Bryian at the armory, same as always. He gave me a nod and three gold, no haggling. Said it was clean work.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back to the deep seam. And this time, I’m bringing my own tongs—made them myself, from good Minoc iron. If the earth wants to test me, let it. I’ve got the fire in me yet.
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