The pickaxe bit into the stone again, and my shoulders burned like they’d been lashed with hot wire. Down in the Minoc mines, it’s always the same—damp air, the echo of distant strikes, and that low, grinding hum of men working stone like they’re trying to wake something up. I’d been at it near an hour, swinging in rhythm, boots planted in the loose gravel, each strike sending a jolt up my arms. Third pocket of ore that shift, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Felt good. Real good. The way the pick caught just right, splitting the wall with a satisfying crack, and there it was—veins of iron shining dull-red in the torchlight, like blood in the rock.
But the forge later? That nearly broke me. Back at the mine forge, sweat stinging my eyes, I fed the furnace until it roared like a caged thing. Tried to smelt the first batch, and the bellows choked. Tried again—same. Twenty-six times I got that cursed “blocked” message, like the damn fire knew I was tired. Eighteen more where the ore just… vanished. Gone. Like the earth took it back. Only five ingots came out clean. I stared at them, glowing in the tongs, and laughed—half bitter, half delirious. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack from past runs, but right then, with the heat on my face and the weight pulling at my shoulders, I felt broke. Really broke.
I limped into town, stopped by the blacksmith near the stables. Old man Harn, red-faced and silent, took the lot without a word. Didn’t haggle. Just counted out what little gold he could spare and nodded me to the door. I stood there a moment, empty pack slung over one arm, watching the anvil—someone else hammering out a horseshoe, sparks flying like trapped stars. Made me remember why I started this—why I keep coming back. Not for the gold. Not even for the craft. But for that moment when the metal yields, when it wants to be shaped.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the mines. Pick in hand. Torch lit. The stone’s still talking. And I’ve got ears to listen.<|im_end|>
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