The pick rang out like a cracked bell—once, twice—into the stubborn iron seam beneath my boots at Minoc’s western ridge. Dust clung to my brow, sharp and dry as ground bone, and the third strike finally split the rock with a sound like frost cracking on a winter lake. I pried out the ore with numb fingers, the weight of it familiar, almost comforting. Eight hours I’d been at this stretch, same as every morning when the sky bleeds pink over the hills. My back ached, but the rhythm keeps you honest. After a while, it’s just you, the stone, and that hollow echo when the vein answers back.
I hauled the load down to the mine forge, nearly fifty ingots now sagging my pack, and stoked the coals with a leather bellows that smelled of old smoke and sweat. The first two smelts sputtered out—blocked, the flame choked by damp ore or some unseen flaw—left me cursing into the soot. But the third? That one caught. The metal glowed, orange-bright, molten eyes opening in the dark heart of the coals. I watched it pool, listened to the soft hiss as impurities burned off, and felt that old warmth climb up my arms like a blessing. It’s not just fire. It’s patience. It’s knowing when to pull back and when to push.
Later, at the blacksmith near the stables, old Harlan barely looked up as I dropped the ingots on his counter. “Again?” he said, and I just nodded. He counted them slow, gold clinking as he passed over the purse—light, but enough. Lighter than it should’ve been, maybe, but I’ve learned not to argue with men who own forges. Walking back, the empty pack bounced against my shoulders, and I caught the scent of bread from the bakery near the barracks. For a moment, I stood there, breathing it in, thinking how the weight always returns. Always.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the deep shaft near 2497. The one with the blue-veined stone. I’ve seen it glisten in the torchlight. Might be mithril. Might be fool’s hope. Either way, the pick’s still sharp.
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