Minoc’s forge was quieter than usual tonight—just the crackle of coals and the distant clink of tankards from the tavern next door. I sat on the old anvil stump, boots scuffed with soot, watching the last ember glow in the pit. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling, not from fatigue, but from that moment earlier when the pickaxe struck true in the iron seam near the mountain pass. Not a glancing blow—no, this was deep, clean, the kind that sings up your arms like a hymn. I’d been down in the tunnels for near six hours, sweat stinging my eyes, ears filled with the echo of stone on stone. But that strike—sharp, resonant, final—sent a jolt through me. I nearly dropped the pick right then, just to feel the vibration fade in my palms.
I hauled nearly fifty ingots out of that vein, packed so tight in my rucksack the straps groaned with every step. Carrying that weight up the slope toward Minoc, I passed the old ore cart rusting in the brush—same one I’d tipped over two winters back, lost half a load to the goblins. This time, no goblins, no rain, just the slow, satisfying drag of leather on shoulder. I thought about selling to the Provisioner South, tried moving that way, but some fool mage was gate-trancing in and out, blocking the road. So I detoured past the smithy, the air thick with the scent of hot iron and old sweat. Dropped a few junk scraps near the scrap pile—rusted nails, bent tongs, the kind of trash that just… accumulates. Felt good to shed the dead weight.
Funny thing—when I finally set the pack down and opened it, the ingots gleamed dull red in the forge light, like they remembered the heart of the mountain. I ran a thumb over one, cold now, but I could still feel the heat of the vein in my bones. It wasn’t just gold in my pocket—it was the silence after the strike, the way the tunnel held its breath.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back. Not for gold. For that moment again—the pick meeting stone, and winning.
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