The pickaxe rang out like a cracked bell in that hollow seam of the East Mine, each strike sending a jolt up my arms and into my shoulders. Dust hung thick in the dim light, catching what little glow came from the torch wedged in the wall—enough to see the dark glint of iron in the stone, enough to know I wasn’t done yet. I’d been at it near all morning, chipping away at the vein, hauling ore back to the mine forge just outside Minoc. My hands were raw, the kind of raw that only comes after a hundred swings and too little care. The air down there tastes like rust and sweat, and the deeper you go, the heavier your pack feels, even before it’s full.
I remember standing at the forge, feeding the last of my ore into the fire. Eight ingots came out clean—hot, heavy, and humming with promise. But the ninth try? The metal cracked as it cooled, warped from uneven heat. A third of it crumbled in my gloves like burnt bread. Damn shame. I cursed under my breath, kicked the bellows shut, and just stared into the coals. That one failure sat with me heavier than the fifty-odd ingots still in my pack. Felt like the fire itself was mocking me, like the mine had given me just enough to keep going, but not enough to feel like I’d won.
I made my way back through Minoc, past the tanner’s yard where the wind carried the sour tang of curing hides, then up the cobbled lane toward the bank. My boots dragged. But when I finally traded those ingots for coin—felt the weight shift from iron to gold in my pouch—something eased. It wasn’t much, less than a hundred gold, but it was honest. Enough to eat, maybe buy new tongs. Mine ones keep bending.
Come dawn tomorrow, I’ll be back in that seam. That vein isn’t spent. And neither am I.
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