I’ll tell ye, the air down in the Minoc mines this morning was thick enough to chew—damp stone, sweat, and that sharp tang of iron dust working its way into your nose with every breath. My pickaxe rang out steady against the vein, clink-clink-clink, each strike sending a shiver up my arms like a ghost was trying to climb right out of the rock. Ten swings, twenty—my shoulder ached, but I kept at it. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack already, and the weight pulled at my hips like old regrets. I’d been down since dawn, chipping away while the sun rose over the hills outside, casting long shadows through the mine entrance. No lantern could match that light, and I missed it down there.
But it wasn’t the weight that nearly broke me—it was the tongs. I’d just pulled a fresh bar from the mine forge, glowing dull orange, and the moment I set it on the anvil to shape, the damn thing snapped at the hinge. Just cracked, like a dry twig underfoot. I stared at it, smoke curling from the broken jaw, and let out a laugh that sounded more like a growl. All that work, hauling the ore up from the dark, just to have my own tools betray me? I stood there, the heat of the bar warming my face, wondering if I should curse the tinker or myself for not checking the welds.
I ended up limping over to Yale in town, begging a repair like some street urchin with a bent spoon. He fixed them quick enough, but the look he gave me—like I’d wasted his time—stung worse than the blisters on my palms. Still, the tongs hold true now, and I’ll be back in the forge tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even save enough to buy a spare. A man can’t trust luck down in the dark. He’s got to trust his tools. And right now, mine are learning loyalty a bit slower than I’d like.
No replies yet.