I’ll tell you, the walk back from the mines near the old stone outcrop west of Minoc—where the ground splits like old leather in the sun—was heavier than most. Not just from the nearly fifty ingots clanking in my pack, but from the way the day wore on me, like a pick that’s lost its edge. The air was thick with the scent of iron dust and something wilder, like burnt sage carried on the wind from the hills. I’d spent the morning digging near (2517,506), that stubborn patch that gives up ore like a miser parts with coin—single nuggets, each strike a gamble. But every time the pickaxe bit deep and rang true, that sharp, singing clang echoing up my arms, I felt it in my bones: this was honest work.
Then came the forge, tucked in the crook of the road just shy of Minoc’s smithy. That heat—gods, it wraps around you like a blanket fresh from the flames. I fed the coals, stoked them high, and tossed in the ore. The glow of molten iron, that liquid orange heart pulsing in the dark belly of the furnace, always pulls me in. But halfway through smelting the third pile, the tongs snapped—just cracked—a cheap pair I’d made in haste. I cursed loud enough for the chickens near the tanner’s yard to scatter. Had to finish the job with a warped set I found in the ash pile, gripping them too tight, blisters forming even through the gloves. Felt like the world was testing me, one broken tool at a time.
Still, I walked into the blacksmith’s shop with my ingots, and old Brenn gave me a nod—didn’t even need to haggle. He knows my work. And when the coins clinked into my palm, I stood there a moment, weight lifted but spirit restless. There’s a set of tongs I’ve been sketching—thick-wrought, balanced true. Might forge them tomorrow. Or maybe head deeper into the mines. Something’s calling.
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