You know, it’s a strange thing. A day in the mines is measured not in hours, but in the changing song of the pick. It starts with a sharp, clear ring when the vein is fresh and the stone is willing. But by the end, when your arms are lead and the mountain seems to sigh with every swing, the sound turns dull. A tired thunk that tells you the earth has given all it will today. I had that sound in my ears, and the grit of the Serpent’s Hold Pass in my teeth, when I finally trudged back to Minoc with nearly fifty ingots weighing my pack down.
But the moment that sticks with me wasn’t in the dark of the mine. It was later, at the forge by the bank, watching old Indira the blacksmith. I’d just sold her a bundle of my work—good, solid iron bands—and was turning to leave when I saw her. She wasn’t just tossing my ingots into a bin. She hefted one in her wrinkled hand, her thumb rubbing over the surface, feeling the grain. She gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Just a flicker in her eyes, a craftsman recognizing honest work. I’ve sold to her a hundred times, but I’d never stopped to see it.
It’s a small thing, I suppose. But in a world crawling with monsters and bandits, where so much is flash and magic, that quiet approval from a woman who’s probably forgotten more about metal than I’ll ever know… it landed heavier than any ingot. It wasn’t about the 220 gold coins, though they’re welcome. It was the reminder that what we pull from the dark and shape in the fire has a purpose. It becomes part of a gate hinge that won’t fail, or a plow that’ll break a new field.
So I’ll drink this ale, and then I’ll head back to the bank. I’ve got a pile of ore waiting to be smelted, and the memory of that nod has lit a different kind of fire. Tomorrow, I think I’ll try my hand at something finer than simple bands. Maybe a dagger. Something with a edge that would make old Indira give that nod again.
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