Minoc’s forge was still humming when I stumbled in from the mine, pack sagging like a drunkard on last legs. Forty-eight trips into that cursed iron seam today—forty-eight times swinging the pick into cold stone, each strike sending a jolt up my arms that settled into a dull ache behind the eyes. The air down there, thick with dust and the sour tang of effort, sticks to your skin no matter how hard you wipe. I barely made it to the mine forge near the southern tunnel mouth before my knees threatened to buckle. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy as regrets, and not a copper to my name after emptying them into the bank chest.
I remember one moment clear as the sky over Trinsic: standing at the anvil with a fresh bar of iron still glowing orange from the smelt, tongs in hand, and the forge fire roaring like a caged beast. My gloves were split at the knuckles, worn through from weeks of this same dance, and the heat licked at my palms like it knew I was tired. I set the bar down just right, raised the hammer—then the tongs snapped. One jaw gave way with a sharp ping, and the iron slipped, clanging into the soot. I just stood there, staring. No curse, no shout. Just the crackle of the fire and the weight of it all—the sore shoulders, the empty coin purse, the dozen failed smelts earlier when the ore just wouldn’t take to the flame.
That broken tongs moment… it wasn’t the first, won’t be the last. But it made me think. There’s a rhythm to this work, a kind of stubborn grace in the repetition. Even when the world fights you—blocked veins, cold metal, broken tools—there’s pride in dragging something useful from the dark. I wrapped the split tongs in leather anyway, stowed them in my belt. Might weld them come morning, if I’ve got the strength.
Tomorrow, I’m heading back. The mountain’s still there. So am I.
No replies yet.