Minoc’s been in my boots and in my breath all day. That dusty climb up from the mineshaft near the Miners Guild South—that stretch where the sun hits the stone just right and blinds you for a step—nearly did me in more than once today. I’d been digging since dawn, pickaxe in hand, shoulders screaming with every swing. Six good strikes into the wall, each one sending sparks flying like angry fireflies, and the ore finally gave way. The sound—metal on stone, that hollow clink when you hit something rich—is music older than any bard’s tune. I knelt there, fingers brushing the dark chunk of iron, still warm from the earth’s belly. Felt like finding a piece of myself down there, buried and waiting.
But the real trial came back at the forge. Forty-seven ingots in my pack—nearly fifty, heavy as guilt—each one a promise of something forged, something useful. I’d just set the bellows going, that first rush of hot air stirring the coals like a waking beast, when the tongs snapped. Just like that. One moment I’m pulling a glowing bar from the heart of the fire, the next, red-hot iron clatters onto the anvil’s edge, hissing like a wronged spirit. My hands froze. The forge roared on, indifferent. I crouched there, sweat stinging my eyes, staring at the broken jaw of those tongs—cheap things, bought in haste from the provisioner two days back. Felt like a betrayal. All that work underground, and now this. I could’ve cursed, but instead I just laughed, low and rough. The fire doesn’t care about your tools. It only asks if you’ll keep going.
So I wrapped a rag round the handle, clumsy but enough, and finished the pour. Made a decent hatchet, not pretty, but the edge’ll bite. Sold it to old Brenna at the blacksmith’s stall near the bank—she didn’t haggle, just nodded and handed over coin. That simple trust, that quiet exchange, meant more than the gold.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the dark again. But first, I’m mending those tongs. Properly this time.
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