Aye, it’s been a long one down in the tunnels near Minoc, where the air’s thick with dust and the pickaxe sings its dull song against stone. I’d been at it since dawn, chipping away at that stubborn iron seam just east of the mine forge, knuckles raw and shoulders aching. Nineteen dozen times my pick found purchase, biting into the rock and yielding up ore—good, heavy chunks that clinked satisfyingly in my pack. But then, nothing. Ten swings, eleven, all duds, the pick ringing off empty stone like a bad joke. I stood there, breath fogging in the chill, sweat cooling on my back, staring at that vein like it had betrayed me. The lantern flickered, and for a moment I thought I’d gone blind in the dark.
I trudged back to the surface, nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one a small victory. The forge near the mine was quiet—no one else foolish enough to be working this late. I fed the coals, stoked the flame, and set to smelting. The first batch took, glowing cherry-red as I worked the bellows, but the tongs snapped on the second—cheap things, worn thin from too many fires. I cursed, burned my forearm on the lip of the crucible, and had to start over. Still, I got it done. Two fresh bars of refined iron, still warm, their surfaces pocked and honest. I held one in my hands, feeling the heat seep into my palms, and for the first time that day, I smiled.
Selling them to old Brenna at the blacksmith shop was almost an afterthought. She didn’t haggle, just nodded, dropped the coins in my palm—133 gold now, not much, but enough to eat and buy better tongs. I stood outside her door, watching the sun bleed red over the hills, the weight in my pack finally gone but the memory of it still on my shoulders.
Tomorrow, I’ll head west, past the abandoned shaft near the old quarry. Heard whispers of a fresh seam. And this time, I’m bringing my own forge tools.
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