I’ll tell you, the walk back up from the mine forge was the heaviest I’ve felt in weeks. Not just from the pack—nearly fifty ingots pressing into my shoulders—but from the silence. No clang of hammer on anvil, no creak of the bellows wheezing like an old dog, just the crunch of gravel under boots and the distant cry of a gull over Minoc’s hills. I’d spent the better part of the morning splitting rock in that damp tunnel south of the city, pickaxe biting into the vein with that familiar thunk-thunk-thunk that rings up your arms and settles behind your eyes. Each strike sent a shiver through the haft, the iron head chipping away at the stubborn stone until the ore gave, dull red and heavy in the torchlight.
But it wasn’t the mining that stuck with me—it was the tongs. Tried to shape a bar at the mine forge, just a quick temper before hauling them in, and the damn things snapped clean at the hinge. Cheap iron, warped from too many heats. I stood there, one glove still smoking, staring at the broken halves like they’d betrayed me. That moment—holding the useless handles, the half-formed bar cooling too fast in the dust—it hit me how fragile it all is. One weak link and the whole chain breaks. I’ve seen better tools at Ogden’s, but he’s been out of stock or too dear lately. Can’t even get a straight answer from the provisioner these days.
So I trudged on toward the Miners Guild South, ingots rattling with every step, hoping the vendor inside would take them. My hands still smelled of sulfur and sweat, the kind of stink that clings no matter how hard you scrub. I kept thinking of the blacksmith back in Minoc, the one with the scar down his forearm who never haggles, just nods and hands over the coin. If I can’t fix the tongs, maybe I’ll trade for a new pair. Or just drink till I forget I ever needed them. But not tonight. Tonight, the weight stays. And tomorrow? Well, the stone won’t mine itself.<|im_end|>
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