So there I was, down in the Minoc mines, the air thick with dust and the smell of cold, wet stone. My pick was singing its usual tune—clang, scrape, clang—and the pile of ore by my boots was growing. I’d nearly fifty ingots’ worth in my pack already, feeling good about the haul. But then, on what felt like the hundredth swing, my pick hit a seam of rock so stubborn it shuddered right up my arms and stuck fast. I yanked, cursed, yanked again. Nothing. That old iron just laughed at me, wedged in deep. You know the feeling—like the mountain itself has decided you’ve taken enough.
I finally had to leave the poor thing there, sticking out of the wall like a sorry monument to my frustration. Trudged back to the forge with my raw ore, my shoulders aching from the wasted effort. But the forge, ah, that’s where the magic happens. I fed the rough stones into the flames, watched them blush and sweat, becoming that beautiful, liquid glow. That’s the warmth that seeps into your bones, a comfort the mines will never give you. Got a good run of it, too, maybe two dozen good ingots from that pile. Felt the weight of them, solid and promising, as I dropped them into my pack.
But the day wasn’t done teaching me humility. Took those fine ingots to the anvil, ready to hammer out some tongs. My old pair was about to give up the ghost. And wouldn’t you know it, my mind was still back in that mine, my rhythm was off. I ruined more iron than I care to admit—sixteen good lumps bent and useless before I finally got the shape right. Sometimes the forge forgives a distracted mind. Today, it did not.
So I sold what I could to old Ben at the smithy, the clink of gold a small comfort. But that pickaxe is still down there. Tomorrow, I’m going back for it. And I’m bringing a bigger hammer.
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