Aye, the mine dust still clings to my beard, and I can taste the iron in the back of my throat like I’ve been chewing on nails. Minoc’s forge was roaring today—hotter than a drunk dwarf’s temper—with that orange glow painting the stone walls in flickering shadows. I’d spent the better part of the morning swinging that pickaxe into the stubborn rock deep in the tunnels, each strike rattling up my arms like a warning. Ninety-six times the ore broke free, chunks of raw iron tumbling into my sack, but sixty-four times the pick just rang off empty stone. You start doubting your own eyes after a while, wondering if the vein’s playing tricks on you. I’ve learned to listen—really listen—because when the pick hits true, there’s a dull thunk, not that cursed ping that means another wasted swing.
I carried what I could—nearly fifty ingots in my pack, their weight settling into my shoulders like old regrets—back to the forge just outside the mine. The heat off the coals hit me before I even stepped in, a wall of it that made my leathers creak. I fed the ore into the fire, watching it melt down, the metal sighing as it pooled. One set of tongs snapped—cheap things, not worth the silver I paid—just as I pulled a crucible free. I cursed loud enough to scare a passing rat, nearly dropping the whole batch. But I got it done. Even forged a single war axe at the anvil afterward, clumsy but solid. Felt good. Real. Like I’d wrestled something from the earth and fire and hadn’t lost.
Selling it to Old Tamsin at Minoc Arms took the edge off. She didn’t haggle much, just nodded and slid the coins across the counter. Eighty-four gold for the axe, and I left another stack of ingots with her, knowing she’ll call me when she needs more. I stood there a moment, empty-handed but not empty—just breathing, feeling the cool air on my soot-streaked face.
Tomorrow, I’m fetching new tongs. And then? Deeper into the mine. I heard whispers of a rich vein near the west shaft. Might just need a stronger pick. Or a stronger arm.
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