Another Minoc dusk, another load of ore heavy on my back. I was down in the East Mine this afternoon, the air thick with dust and the echo of pick on stone. You know that moment when your shoulder starts to burn and your knuckles split open from the third or fourth swing, but you keep going because you’re chasing that one rich vein? Found it today—dark iron, deep in the wall near the southern seam. Felt the pick bite just right, not a clean clink like with tin, but a dull, meaty thud that told me there was weight behind it. Pulled out nearly fifty ingots after a solid hour of smelting at the mine forge, lungs full of soot, sweat stinging my eyes. The bellows were sluggish, and four times the flame choked out—some fool must’ve hoarded the coal again—but I nursed it back each time, feeding the fire like a starving dog.
Walking back up the hill toward town, the pack dug into my shoulders something fierce. Passed the old oak where the beggars used to gather before the guard ran them off. Funny how you notice those quiet things when your body’s numb with labor. Got to the blacksmith near the stables, but the door was jammed—again. Some greenhorn left a warped anvil blocking the frame. Had to circle around through the market, dodging carts and chickens, my arms trembling. Finally sold the lot to Elwin the vendor, the one with the scarred hand. He didn’t haggle, just grunted and counted out eighty gold. Not much for fifty ingots, but it’s coin. Felt the weight lift, not just from my pack, but from my bones.
Sat on the step outside the bank for a spell, watching the sun bleed red over the hills. Thought about my father, who swung a pick in these same mines till his spine gave out. He’d say, “Grimm, the ore don’t care if you’re tired. It’ll outlast you.” Maybe he’s right. But tonight, I’m buying a tankard, maybe two. Tomorrow, I’m making better tongs—forge-welded, not those flimsy things that snapped last week. Stronger tools. Stronger arms. The stone’s still there. So am I.
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