I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe sings a different song when your arms are near to giving out. I was bent over that seam in the Minoc hills, right where the stone bleeds red with iron, and the sun was slanting low enough to blind a man between the cracks in the cliff face. Thirty-five strikes I made that hour—maybe more—some clean, some glancing off like I was chipping at granite with a spoon. But that one good strike, the one that finally split the rock open and spilled out a nugget of ore the size of my thumb—aye, that one rang through the shaft all the way up to my teeth. Felt like the mountain exhaled.
I carried it back to the mine forge, where the air hangs thick with cinders and the anvil still bears the dents from last week’s rush. Smelted four batches under the open sky, the coals hissing when the damp ore hit flame. Twice the tongs snapped on me—one was cracked near the hinge, I should’ve tossed it days ago. Had to pull the ingot out with pliers, nearly burned my forearm clean through. But I got them done. Eight good ingots, heavy in the pack, and I added ‘em to the pile already weighing me down—nearly fifty in all, pressing between my shoulders like a guilty conscience.
Walked into Indira’s shop just before dusk. She didn’t even look up when I dropped the best one on her counter. “Again, Grimm?” she said, turning it in her fingers. “You’re bringing in softer stuff lately.” But she paid all the same—48 gold, clinking into my palm like salvation. I stood there a moment, staring at the coins, thinking how close I am to that next skill rise. Blacksmithy’s been stubborn—60.8, stuck like a splinter.
Come morning, I’m heading back. Might find a richer vein. Might just break another tool. But the mountain’s still there. And so am I.
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