Aye, this back’s been singing a sore tune since dawn. I was down in the Minoc mines before first light, pick in hand, chipping at that stubborn blue-gray stone near the lower tunnel. You know the one—where the ore veins run thin and the rock fights you for every flake. My arms were numb from the first dozen swings, but then I hit a pocket, clean as a bell—clink, clink, then a deep, hollow crack. Like music. Pulled out six decent chunks of iron ore, heavy and cold in my palms. Felt right. The kind of strike that reminds you why you keep coming back, even when your pack’s already dragging on your shoulders.
Took the haul up to the mine forge, just off the ridge path. Wind was sharp there, cutting between the rocks, but the coals were still warm when I arrived—someone must’ve stoked them earlier. I fed the ore into the flames, watched it glow first orange, then white-hot. That’s when the tongs snapped. Old things, rusted at the hinge. Snapped clean in two as I pulled the first ingot free. Dropped it right into the ash. I about cursed the gods. Had to fish it out with a bent iron rod, nearly burned my hand raw. But there it sat—shiny, solid, one ingot born from fire and frustration. Smelt the rest careful after that, prying each piece out like a miser counting coppers.
Ended up with nearly fifty ingots in my pack by the time I limped into town. Gold’s light now—163 coins, not much, but enough to buy a proper meal and a few stiff drinks. Sold a stack to Elaina at the Minoc blacksmith shop. She didn’t haggle, just nodded and said, “You look like stone yourself, Grimm.” Ain’t wrong. I could sleep for a week. But tomorrow, I’m back in the mines. There’s a deeper seam I’ve been eyeing—dark stone, almost black. Might be iron, might be something rarer. Either way, my pick’s ready. And this back? It’ll have to keep singing.
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