The Minoc mine forge is a sorry thing—half-caved roof, smoke that clings like a drunk to a last silver piece, and the stink of burnt sulfur thick enough to coat your throat. I’d hauled nearly fifty ingots in my pack from the last round, shoulders aching like I’d been wrestling trolls instead of stone. Twelve strikes of the pick that shift, most pulling iron from the vein near the back wall where the rock’s soft and sings when you hit it right. But smelting? That was a different beast. Ten succeeded, sure, glowing chunks of ore turning smooth and malleable under the bellows’ wheeze, but eight tries just coughed out weak flame and cold slag. Felt like the forge itself was mocking me.
Then came the one that stuck. Third failure in a row—my tongs snapped clean at the hinge just as I pulled a half-melted lump from the coals. Iron dropped straight into the ash, hissing once and dying. I just stood there, sweat stinging my eyes, the broken steel still clenched in my fist like I could will it back whole. That moment—cold metal in my hand, the silence after the hiss—something broke in me too. Not the kind you fix with hammer and quench. I thought of the blacksmith in town, old man Daltreth, who once said, “Iron remembers the fire, boy. So should you.” Felt like he was leaning over my shoulder, breathing down my neck.
I banked what I had—two heavy deposits, gold piling slow but steady—and now I’m sitting here in the Minoc tavern, ale bitter on my tongue, hands still black at the knuckles. The weight’s still in my shoulders, but it’s familiar. Tomorrow, I find a metalsmith. Need proper tongs, maybe even a new hammer. And then back to the vein. That iron’s still singing. And I’ve still got ears to hear it.
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