I’ll tell ya, there’s a rhythm to the pick’s bite in the deep seams near Minoc Mining Camp—when it hits true, that crisp crack echoes up your arms like a song. But today, the rock fought me. Twenty times I swung at empty veins, the pick glancing off stone that looked rich but gave nothing. Dust clogged my throat, and my back ached from bending in that narrow tunnel. I must’ve wasted near an hour hacking at false promise, my knuckles raw, sweat stinging my eyes. Felt like the mountain was laughing. But then—thud—the pick stuck, and I wrenched it free to see that blue-gray glint: iron, real and thick. Twenty-five good strikes after that, each one a small victory, each ore lump heavy and honest in my sack.
I hauled the lot back toward town, nearly fifty ingots in my pack by the time I’d smelt the last batch at the mine forge. The weight pulled at my shoulders something fierce, but it was a good burden—the kind that means coin at the end. When I finally stumbled into Minoc, the sun was low, painting the rooftops gold, and I detoured to the blacksmith’s yard. Tried to craft something worthwhile, a hatchet maybe, but the tongs snapped mid-work, red-hot bar slipping into the ash. Damn thing was worn thin, and I hadn’t brought a spare. Stood there, staring at the ruined iron, the heat still pulsing against my face, smelling the burnt leather of my gloves. Felt like the day was spitting in my eye.
But I’ve learned better than to curse the forge. I cooled the rest of the bars myself, stacked them neat, and went straight to Minoc Arms. Old Brenin was there, same as always, leaning on the counter like he hadn’t moved since spring. Didn’t haggle, just nodded and counted out the gold—133 shiny coins for the lot. Lightened my pack, but filled my pockets with promise.
Tomorrow, I’m buying new tongs. And then I’m going back. That mountain’s got more in her. I can feel it in my bones.
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