I’ll tell ye, there’s a rhythm to the pick’s bite in the stone—sixty strikes deep into that seam near the Minoc mine forge, and the rock finally gave way with a crack that rang up my arms like a bell. My knuckles were raw, sweat stinging my eyes, but I didn’t stop. Not when the glint of iron caught the torchlight, not when my pack groaned under the weight of nearly fifty ingots pressing into my back. That last vein was stubborn—blocked three times by collapsed shale before I found the right angle. Felt like the mountain itself was testing me, see? But when the ore came free, warm and heavy in my palm, I grinned like a fool. There’s pride in that moment, when the stone yields and you know your hands earned every ounce.
I limped back to the forge with my haul, shoulders aching, and set to smelting. The fire roared to life like an old friend, and I fed the ore in handful by handful. Eight times the bellows wheezed, eight times the crucible glowed white, and each pour of molten metal into the mold sang a little hymn of patience. But it was the tongs that nearly broke me—cheap things, warped from too many heats. On the last ingot, they snapped clean at the hinge, and I damn near dropped it into the coals. Cursed loud enough to scare the rats. Had to fish it out with the poker, sweating like I’d run the whole way to Trinsic. That’s the thing folks don’t talk about—the little failures that wear you down more than the work itself.
Still, I made the cutlass. One fine piece, balanced true, blade catching the light like water. Took it to the blacksmith near Minoc Arms, the one with the hammer-and-anvil sign out front. He didn’t haggle—just nodded, handed over gold, and said, “Good weight to it.” High praise, that. Felt lighter leaving, even with 146 stones still on me.
Tomorrow, I’m finding better tongs. And maybe a sturdier pick. That mountain ain’t going anywhere.
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