Minoc’s mine forge was still humming when I stumbled in late, pack sagging like a drunk on the last stool. I’d been down in the lower tunnels near the iron veins past the river bend—where the air gets thick and the stone sweats rust. Ten, maybe twelve hours with the pick, I’d lost count. My arms felt hollow, like I’d poured everything into each swing. There’s a moment, you know, when the pick hits just right—metal kissing stone, then crack—and the rock gives way like it was waiting for the invitation. That sound, clean and sudden, it’s better than any ale. I’d filled my pack near to bursting, nearly fifty ingots by the time I hauled myself topside. The weight pulled at my shoulders something fierce, but it’s a good kind of pain. Honest.
I limped into the forge, the heat hitting me like an old friend. Firelight danced off the anvil, and for a second I just stood there, letting the sweat on my brow turn to steam. I tossed the ingots onto the workbench—clunk, clunk, clunk—each one a small victory. But then, as I reached for the tongs to sort the best for bar-making, the handle snapped clean off. Cheap things, bought off a passing merchant two moons back. I nearly cursed loud enough to wake the dead, but then I just laughed. Of all the things to break after a day like this. I sat on the soot-blackened stool, staring at that broken hunk of iron, and thought about how easy it’d be to walk away. Start farming cabbage or something soft like that.
But nah. I’ve got the fire back now. I’ll mend the tongs tomorrow—forge new jaws, maybe add a leather wrap for grip. There’s still iron in the veins, and my back’s still strong. And this town? Minoc needs its blades, its hinges, its horseshoes. So I’ll be back in the tunnels by dawn, pick in hand, listening for that sweet crack in the dark.
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