The pickaxe bit into the stone again, and again—each strike sending a jolt up my arms like a warning. I was deep in the Minoc East Mine, where the air stays damp and the walls weep rust-colored water. Eleven good strikes this hour, and two blocked by stubborn rock that laughed at steel. My knuckles were raw, the leather grip slick with sweat, but I kept at it. There’s a rhythm to mining, a kind of prayer in the swing. You learn to listen to the echoes in the tunnel—some rocks hum when they’re ready to break. Others stay silent, mocking.
I hauled the ore back to the mine forge near the entrance, where the air burns twice as hot. Five times I fed the flames, stoking them with brittle coal until they roared like old beasts. Two attempts failed—blocked by impurities, maybe, or just bad luck. But the fifth batch took. I saw it happen: the molten shift, the slag bubbling up like poison before it split clean from the iron. The ingots cooled with that familiar ring, a sound like a bell tolling for something earned, not given. I stacked them one by one. Nearly fifty in my pack now, pressing down hard on my shoulders. Every step back toward Minoc felt like walking through tar.
Passed old Tindle at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. Didn’t say much—just squinted at my pack, nodded once. I didn’t have coin to spend, not after the furnace fees, but he didn’t ask. Sometimes a nod’s enough. I stood there a moment, feeling the weight, the heat still in my palms, the ache in my lower back like a familiar ghost. All this for nothing in the bank and empty pockets. But it’s not just about gold. It’s about knowing the stone gave something to me, not the other way around.
Tomorrow, I go back. And next time, I’ll bring heavier tongs. These keep slipping.<|im_end|>
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