Aye, the pickaxe rang true this morning in the mines near Minoc—first real shift in days where the stone gave up without a fight. I’d been down near the low tunnel, the one where the ceiling drips rust-colored water and the air tastes like old iron. Forty swings in, my back already singing its usual complaint, and then—clink—the pick bit clean, and a seam of ore split open like ripe fruit. Felt good. Felt right. I could’ve stood there all day listening to that sound, each strike sending a jolt up my arms, gritty dust coating my beard, the lantern flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. Took me near two hours to fill the pack—nearly fifty ingots rattling against my spine by the time I hauled myself topside.
Up at the mine forge, sweat still stinging my eyes, I slapped the first lump onto the anvil. The coals were sluggish—someone’d let them die down—but once I got them roaring again, the heat bloomed across my face like an old friend. I worked the bellows with one hand, tongs in the other, watching the ore soften to cherry red. Then—snap. The left jaw of my tongs split clean off. Cheap things, bought off a passing tinkerman last winter. I cursed loud enough to scare a rat from the rafters. Had to wedge the ingot with a bent iron rod and pray it didn’t roll into the dirt. Nearly lost half a bar to the filth.
But I finished it. Twelve bars shaped, cooled in the trough, stacked beside me like promises. That’s when old Harva came round from the blacksmith’s on the square. She didn’t say much, just nodded at the ingots, tossed me six gold, and said, “Don’t let the mine eat you, Grimm.” I’ll remember that. Gold jingling in my pocket, weight still heavy on my shoulders, I sat on the step and watched the sun hit the cobbles. Tomorrow, I’ll buy proper tongs. Maybe even a new pick. But tonight, I drink. This trade’s never kind, but it’s mine.
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