The pickaxe bit into the stone seam at Minoc like it was answering a grudge. I’d been at it near two hours, shoulders burning, sweat stinging the corner of my eye where a stray rock chip had scratched me. Twenty-three good strikes—counted them in my head, not out of pride but to keep the rhythm—but five times the pick skittered off like the mountain itself was laughing. Once, I swung so hard on a blocked strike the haft jolted up into my palms, splitting the skin near my thumb. I spat on it, kept going. There’s a silence down in that tunnel when you’re alone, thick as the dust in your beard, broken only by the clink of metal on ore and the scuttle of something small in the dark. I don’t like it. Feels like the rock’s watching.
I hauled the ore up to the mine forge just past midday, nearly fifty ingots in my pack, the weight pulling at my hips with every step. The heat from the forge hit me before I even saw the glow—warm as a drunkard’s breath, familiar. I dumped the ore into the reagent bin, wiped my face with a soot-streaked sleeve, and got to work. Smelted three batches before the tongs gave out—snapped clean at the hinge on the fourth. Cheap things, but I’d welded them myself last week, pride be damned. Had to use the backup pair, the ones with the warped grip that make your wrist ache. Felt every ounce of that ache as I pulled glowing iron from the coals, the orange light painting the walls like firelight on old blood.
Sold the lot to Hildagar at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. He didn’t haggle—rare for him—and counted out gold with that same flat stare. No gold in my pouch now, but the weight’s gone from my pack, and that counts for something. I stood there a moment, staring at the anvil in the corner, still warm from someone else’s work. Tomorrow, I think I’ll make my own tongs. Proper ones. Thick shaft, balanced. Maybe even etch my name. Ain’t much, but it’d mean the mountain hasn’t won. Not yet.
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