The pick struck true again, and again—each sharp clink sending a shiver up my arms, the echo bouncing off the damp stone walls of the Minoc mines. I’d been at it since first light, boots caked in that chalky gray dust that clings like a second skin. My back ached, sweat stung my eyes, but I kept swinging. There’s a rhythm to it, once you’re in the groove—swing, chip, listen. You learn to hear the difference between solid rock and a vein worth chasing. And then I heard it: a deeper ring, cleaner, like a bell struck under the earth. I dropped to one knee, scraped away the rubble with my gloves, and there it was—iron, dark and promising, threading through the stone like a river. I must’ve filled my pack near to bursting, close to fifty ingots by the time I hauled myself back into the morning sun.
The forge behind the blacksmith’s shop in Minoc was cold when I got there, the air thick with the ghost of yesterday’s fire. I stoked it slow, coaxing the embers back to life with dry kindling and patience. The first ingot cracked when I heated it—too fast, too greedy. I cursed under my breath, tossed the ruined chunk aside. But the second… the second glowed just right, that deep cherry red that says I’m ready. I grabbed the tongs—old things, their grip worn smooth from years of use—and set to work. Halfway through shaping the bloom, one jaw snapped clean off. I nearly threw the whole mess into the dirt. Just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the broken iron in my hand. But then I remembered Old Man Craddock’s words: “A smith don’t quit when the tools fail. He fixes what he’s got and keeps going.”
So I did. Used the anvil to bend the tongs back, wedged a scrap of steel in the hinge, bound it with wire. It wasn’t pretty, but it held. By dusk, I’d turned twelve ingots into decent bar stock—nothing masterwork, but solid, honest iron. Sold the lot to Beth at the supply shop near the stables. She didn’t haggle, just counted out the coins with that tired smile of hers. Felt good, that weight lifting from my pack, replaced by a small pouch of gold. Not much, but enough to eat, to buy new tongs, maybe even a pint tonight. Tomorrow? I think I’ll try the deep shaft near the west ridge. Heard whispers of copper down there—soft, rich, singing under the pick. And I’ve a mind to hear it.
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