Minoc’s forge was quiet tonight, just the crackle of the coals and the echo of my own breath. I’d been down in the mines near the mountain pass east of town since before dawn, hacking at the stone with my pick like it owed me coin. My arms ached down to the bone, but I kept swinging—each strike sending a jolt up the haft, vibrating in my palms, the iron head biting into the rock with a dull clink. I’d lost count of how many swings it took to free a single slab, but by midday, I had nearly fifty ingots in my pack, the weight pulling at my shoulders like old regrets. The air down there was thick with dust and the smell of damp stone, and every breath tasted like grit.
It was the last strike of the haul that nearly broke me. I’d pried loose a stubborn seam of iron when my tongs snapped—cold iron giving way with a sharp crack that rang off the walls. The ingot tumbled back into the dark crevice it came from, lost in shadow. I just stood there, torch flickering low, staring at the broken tool in my hand. Felt like the whole mountain was laughing. I thought about leaving it—walking out empty beyond what I already had—but something stubborn in me refused. I knelt, scraped the ingot out with my belt knife, fingers raw and black with soot. Held it up to the torchlight. One more. Always one more.
Back at the forge, I stacked the ingots near the anvil, listening to their dull thuds like they were counting out the day’s dues. I fed the fire, stoked it high, and let the heat wash over me. That warmth—dry and fierce, peeling the chill from the mines off my skin—was its own kind of payment. I didn’t shape anything tonight. Just sat, drank watered ale from a chipped mug, and watched the coals glow red as embers.
Tomorrow, I’ll repair those tongs. Better ones. Maybe even try folding steel if the ore holds. But tonight, I earned the rest. The mountain’s still there. It’ll wait.
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