The pick rang out again and again in that hollow, wet echo of the deep tunnels beneath Minoc—each strike sending a jolt up my arms, the kind that settles into the bones after a dozen hours underground. I’d lost count of how many swings it took to free that last chunk of ore, but I remember the way the stone cracked open like rotten wood, revealing the dark glint of iron inside. My lantern was guttering low, painting the damp walls in shaky gold, and the air tasted of wet rock and old smoke. I tossed the ore into my pack, already heavy with nearly fifty ingots, and felt the strap bite into my shoulder. One more trip up the ladder, one more haul to the surface—just me, my pick, and the deep hum of the earth settling around me.
I stopped at the mine forge on the way out, the one tucked in the corner where the air’s thick with soot and the anvil’s worn nearly flat from a hundred hands before mine. The tongs slipped twice when I tried to pull the last batch from the coals—fingers blistering, sweat stinging my eyes—and on the third try, they snapped clean at the hinge. I cursed loud enough to scare the rats, kicking the broken iron into the dark. But the ingots cooled true, at least. Eight good ones from four smelts, and the rest choked in the clog of half-melted slag. That’s mining: fortune grins or spits, and you just stand there with soot on your face, taking it.
Up top, the Minoc blacksmith’s shop smelled of bread and leather—odd company for a man who trades in fire and steel. Old Man Harken didn’t say much, just nodded when I dumped the ingots on his counter. Paid fair, too. Seventy-two gold now in my pouch, and for once, it didn’t vanish into the ground or the fire. I stood there a moment, feeling the weight shift in my pack, lighter now, but my body still bent from carrying it.
Tomorrow, I think I’ll skip the deep tunnels. Maybe work the surface vein near the path, or try my hand shaping one of these ingots into something real—sword, maybe, or a proper set of tongs. Something that doesn’t break.
No replies yet.