Minoc’s mine forge was still humming when I dragged myself back up the slope tonight, pickaxe slung over my shoulder like a dead man’s rifle. The air down in those tunnels—damp stone, old iron, and something deeper, like the earth itself was breathing slow and sour—clung to my clothes even after I surfaced. I’d been at it since dawn, chipping away at that stubborn iron seam near the east wall, the one that sings when you strike it just right. Eight hours, maybe nine. Lost count. My arms felt hollow by the end, like the pick had sapped the strength right out of my bones with every swing. But I kept going. Fifty-two ingots, I counted them twice once I’d cooled the last batch at the forge. Nearly fifty in my pack already, heavy enough to make my hips ache when I walked.
The real moment came when I pulled the final bar from the coals—just one left after the rest had sold to old Brindle at the blacksmith’s stall. The tongs snapped clean in half as I lifted it, iron jaws giving way with a sharp crack that echoed off the stone walls. I just stood there, staring at the broken ends in my hand, sweat stinging my eyes, the ingot glowing like a dying star on the anvil. Felt like the whole day had come down to that: me and a lump of iron, neither of us willing to yield. I ended up using the leather wrap from my belt to grip it, pressing the hot edge into the quenching trough with my gloved hand. The steam burned my face, but I held it steady. That ingot’s warped now, slightly twisted, but it’s mine.
Sitting here at the tavern, drinking watered ale that tastes like ditch runoff, I keep thinking about the weight of it all. Not just the ingots, but the silence in the mine, the rhythm of the pick, the way the flame licks the iron until it’s ready to bend. I ain’t got a copper to my name yet—Brindle’s still holding payment till he sells the lot—but I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll forge something of my own with that warped bar. A hammer, maybe. Something that won’t break so easy.
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