I’ll tell ye, the mine forge near Minoc’s back gate has a smell all its own—hot iron, damp stone, and a lick of sulfur from the ore that won’t quite burn clean. I was down there just past noon, pick in hand, knuckles scraped raw from one too many swings at that stubborn seam in the northern tunnel. You know the one—where the rock’s more like flint than iron, and every strike sends sparks flying up into your face. I took twelve, maybe fifteen hits before the chunk finally broke free, and when it did, the pick rang like a cracked bell. My arms shook after that, but I kept at it. There’s a rhythm to mining, if you listen—when the pick bites, when it skids, when it lies dead against stone. Today, it lied more than it bit.
I hauled nearly fifty ingots up from the depths, packed tight enough my back groaned every step to the blacksmith on Oak Lane. Halfway there, one strap snapped, and I had to re-secure the load in the alley behind the Provisioner. That’s when the rain came—just a few drops at first, then a proper drizzle that turned the cobbles slick and made the ingots feel twice as heavy. I stood there, crouched in the damp, hands fumbling with the buckle, and I thought, This is it. This is what it means to be a man of iron—carrying what others don’t want to lift, shaping what others can’t break.
The blacksmith—old Kellen, red-bearded and never smiling—weighed my lot without a word. He paid fair, though. Enough to restock tongs and buy a tankard at the tavern, which I’m doing now. The ale’s bitter, but it warms the same as the forge. Tomorrow, I’m heading back, but I’ll start earlier. Catch the shift before the rush. Maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a vein with some silver in it. A man can dream while he swings.
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