Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, shoulders aching like I’d been wrestling trolls instead of rock. The air smelled of old coal and damp stone, that familiar tang of iron dust clinging to the back of my throat. I dropped my pickaxe near the anvil—handle splintered at the end from one too many hard swings—and peeled off my gloves. Fingers stiff, knuckles raw. Six veins cracked open today, but nine swings met nothing but unyielding stone, the pick rebounding up my arms like the mountain itself was laughing. Felt like digging my own grave more than striking fortune.
I lit the forge with a scrap of tinder and a muttered curse, fed it kindling till the coals glowed red. That first ingot I poured, it caught wrong—bubbled and hissed like it didn’t want to be tamed. But the second settled smooth in the mold, heavy and solid when I pulled it free. Held it in bare hands despite the heat—just a second too long—feeling that deep, honest warmth seep into my palms. Like holding the heartbeat of the earth. By the time I stacked the fifth, I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, the weight pulling my belt low, each step a quiet reminder: this is real. This I earned.
Funny thing, pride. It don’t come when the vein first breaks or the gold’s counted. Came today when I heard footsteps behind me—some green recruit fumbling with his own pick—and I didn’t snap, didn’t growl at him to keep his noise down. Just nodded, tossed him a spare pair of gloves from my pack. Remembered being that raw.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back down before dawn. Not for the gold—there’s none today, not a single coin in my pouch—but because the mountain’s still talking. And I’m learning how to listen.
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