The pickaxe bit into the stone deep in the Minoc mines like an old friend chewing on gristle—familiar, stubborn, relentless. I’d been at it since dawn, shoulders burning, knuckles raw from the cold grip of the haft. The air down there carries that damp iron smell, like wet blood on stone, and the lantern on my belt flickered every time I swung, casting shadows that danced like drunkards on the tunnel walls. I wasn’t chasing riches—gold’s been scarce as a honest mage these days—but iron, solid iron, that’s what keeps a man fed. And warm. And armed. I’d already filled my pack near to bursting, nearly fifty ingots clanking with every step, each one a little victory hauled up from the dark.
But it wasn’t until I reached the mine forge just outside the tunnels that the real test came. My tongs snapped clean in half when I pulled the latest bar from the coals—cheap things, worn thin from weeks of use. I cursed so loud a rat bolted from the corner. There I stood, sweat stinging my eyes, staring at that glowing red bar cooling fast on the anvil. No tongs, no time. So I did what my da taught me—wrapped my leather apron around the end and heaved it into place. The heat seeped through, blistering, but I held on, hammering quick and true. Each strike rang like a bell, shaping not just the metal, but something in me too. There’s pride in that sound, in the sweat and the sting, in knowing you didn’t quit when the tools failed.
By the time I limped into Minoc’s smithy, the weight in my pack felt different—not just burden, but worth. Old Man Hefrey bought the lot without haggling, which says more about the war effort than his generosity. Still, the jingle of coins in my palm was sweet, even if it’s barely enough to buy new tongs and a pint. But tomorrow? I’ll be back in the tunnels. The stone’s still there. The fire’s still hot. And my hands—blistered, aching, mine—will answer.
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