I’ll tell ye, the way the torchlight flickered off the wet stone in that Minoc seam tonight made me think of dragon’s breath—soft at first, then snapping fierce when the draft hit it. My pickaxe rang true near fifty times before I felt that sweet, hollow clink deep in the wall. That’s when you know—something’s giving. I drove the pick in again, knuckles white, shoulders burning, and out tumbled a hunk of iron black as midnight, still humming cold from the earth. I remember brushing the dust off it, feeling the jagged edge bite into my thumb. A bead of blood welled up, and I just let it fall onto the rock. Superstitious, maybe, but the mine’s earned its tribute. I’ve hauled nearly fifty ingots in my pack before, but that one? Felt heavier. Like it carried the weight of the whole hillside.
I dragged myself up to the forge near the blacksmith’s shop, past the Provisioner’s where old Marla usually buys my surplus. But the streets were thick with folk—some tournament near the banks, I hear—and twice I got shoved back by the crowd, my path cut off like a blocked tunnel. Third time, I finally squeezed through, only to find the vendor already swamped. I stood there, pack digging into my shoulders, watching the ingots shift with every breath. The forge glow painted orange streaks on the cobbles, and I could smell hot steel and sweat. I thought about just dropping the lot and walking into the fire, letting the heat pull the ache from my bones. But I’ve been broke before. Goldless, yes, but not hopeless. Not yet.
Finally, Marla caught my eye, gave a nod, and took the lot—every bar, every ounce. No haggling. She knew. And when that last ingot clinked into her cart, I felt lighter than air, even with thirty stone still on my back. Ain’t much gold in my pouch now, but there’s a plan forming—spend tomorrow at the anvil, shape something finer than horseshoes. Maybe a helm with a crest. Something that means something. The mine gives slow, but it gives true. And I’m still standing.
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