I’ll tell ye, there’s a particular kind of ache that settles into your bones after swinging a pickaxe in the East Mine long enough—the kind that starts in your shoulders and works its way down to your boots, like the weight of the mountain itself is pressing back. I’d been down there since dawn, chipping at the iron seams near Minoc, the air thick with dust and the dull clink-clink of metal on stone echoing off the walls. By the time I hauled myself topside with nearly fifty ingots in my pack, my fingers were stiff as iron rods, and the sun was already slanting low over the hills. I thought the hard part was over. Foolish thought.
I made it to the mine forge just outside the tunnel mouth—just me, the anvil, and that sweet, roaring heat. The first few ingots melted clean, glowing like captured sunset as I fed them into the crucible. But on the third batch, the tongs snapped. Cold iron, brittle from overuse, gave way with a sound like a snapped bone. One ingot rolled into the dirt, still white-hot, hissing as it cooled. I just stood there, sweat stinging my eyes, watching good metal die in the grime. A waste. A damn shame. I could’ve cursed, but what good would it do? The mountain doesn’t care about your tools breaking.
I limped into Minoc with what I had left, the pack dragging on my back like a drunk cousin. Made it to the blacksmith near the stables—good man, Jonar, never haggles too hard—and he took the ingots without much fuss. Paid me just enough to eat and buy new tongs, maybe even a flask of something sharp. As I left, I passed the bank, but the path was clogged with merchants and their damn wagons. No use fighting it. So I sat on the step, counted the coins in my palm, and watched the sky turn the color of cooling steel.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the mine. And this time, I’m bringing two pairs of tongs.
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