I’ll tell ye, the walk back from the Minoc mines to the arms shop wasn’t kind on my shoulders—nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one cold and unforgiving against my spine. I could feel every step in my hips, like the weight was grinding my bones down to sand. The sun hung low over the hills near Yew, casting long shadows that made the road look like iron bars across the dirt. I passed the old mine forge just past the camp, smoke long gone, cold stone now. Makes a man think—how many of us have swung picks in that hole, fed the fires, only to walk the same road with nothing but sore hands and emptier pockets?
But it wasn’t the weight that nearly broke me—it was the tongs. Gods below, I swear they snapped just as I pulled the last bar from the coals at the blacksmith’s anvil near Minoc Arms. A clean, sharp crack, like a frost-split log. Had to use the edge of the quenching trough to steady it, nearly burned my forearm on the steam. I stood there, sweat stinging my eyes, watching that ingot glow cherry-red, knowing one slip and it’d warp into junk. The air tasted like sulfur and old metal, and for a moment, I just wanted to kick the damn anvil over. But I didn’t. Held steady. Hammered it true.
Selling to Bryland at the arms shop felt like absolution. He didn’t haggle, just weighed the bars with that same tired nod, slid over a pouch light as breath. No gold now—just the promise of some tomorrow. Still, he offered me a seat, a sip of sour cider that burned cleaner than pride. Sat there, my hands twitching with the memory of the hammer’s rhythm, listening to the town clock toll six. I’ve got no coin, near half my strength gone, but I’ve still got arms, a sharp pick, and the know-how to make iron sing.
Come dawn, I’m heading back to the deep seam. They say there’s star-metal in the lower tunnels—if you believe old drunk tales. I don’t. But I do believe in the strike of steel on stone, and that’s enough to get me up again.
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