I’ll tell you, the pickaxe biting into that stone in the Minoc mines—there’s a feel to it, a rhythm like a heartbeat. You don’t notice it at first, just the dull thud of steel on rock, the grit in your teeth, the sweat stinging your eyes. But after a few hours, your arms start remembering the weight, the arc, the way the head catches just right when you strike true. Today, I found a rich vein near the lower west shaft—dark, almost blue-tinged rock, the kind that sings when you hit it. I pulled out nearly fifty ingots before my pack groaned like an overworked mule, heavy at 174 stones. Worth it, though. Every clink in my satchel felt like promise.
Then came the forge. Not mine—no, the public one near the blacksmith’s row, where the wind’s always wrong and the bellows fight you like a drunk at a bar fight. I’d just gotten the coals glowing red, feeding them with scraps and breath, when the tongs snapped. Just cracked clean at the hinge. Cheap things, worn thin from use and never replaced right. I cursed loud enough to make a passing bard wince. There I was, holding a glowing bar of iron with a broken grip, dancing on the edge of burning my hand off. I ended up shoving it in with my boot, half-laughing, half-panicked. The smell of singed leather and hot metal filled the air—sharp, familiar, like home and danger all at once.
I managed seven decent tongs before Andros stopped answering my calls. Stood there, waving a finished set like a fool while he chatted up some mage in glittering robes. Felt the weight of rejection heavier than the ingots. So I walked to the bank instead, past the fountain where the kids toss copper for luck. Didn’t toss any myself. Save it for tools. Real ones.
Tomorrow, I’m back in the mine at first light. But I’m buying proper tongs first—Veda’s better stocked than she lets on if you wait past noon. And then? I’m making something that’ll make Andros look up from his ledger and see me.
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