Another day, another dance with stone and flame. I was out near the old iron seam north of Minoc, the one that runs shallow and stubborn through the bedrock. My pickaxe bit into the wall with that familiar clink-thud, each strike sending a shiver up my arms—like the earth itself was grumbling at being disturbed. Twenty-one trips to the vein, I reckon, filling my pack near to bursting. Nearly fifty ingots in there now, pressing into my shoulders like old regrets. The air in that tunnel is thick with dust and silence, broken only by the echo of metal on rock. I could’ve sworn I heard voices once, deep in the stone—just for a second—but that’s the mine playing tricks, or maybe my own tired mind begging for company.
I dragged them back to the mine forge, where the anvil stands crooked and the bellows wheeze like a sick dog. Seven times I stoked the coals, feeding them scrap and breath until they roared orange again. The heat on my face, the sting of sweat in my eyes—there’s something honest in that. But on the last batch, the tongs snapped clean in two, red-hot iron crumbling in my hands. Just stood there, staring at the broken ends, smoke curling from the forge floor. Felt like the world was telling me to quit. I cursed, kicked the anvil—stupid, I know—and then laughed because what else can you do? Picked up the ingots with thick leather gloves, clumsy but safe.
Banked what I could in Minoc, left the weight of iron in the vault while I caught my breath near the Tanner’s stall. The sun was dipping behind the hills, painting the roofs gold. For a moment, I didn’t feel like a man who hauls rock for a living. Felt like someone who might sit a while, drink something strong, maybe even smile.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back—but I’m taking new tongs. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll try shaping something real. A sword, maybe. Or a hammer. Something that lasts.
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