Minoc’s air was thick with the smell of sweat and iron when I finally dragged myself out of that mine near the old forge. My back ached like a mule’d been kicked into it, and my hands—blistered, cracked—still twitched around the haft of my pick like they couldn’t let go. I’d spent better part of the day chipping at the stubborn rock vein near the south tunnel, the one that sings when you strike it just right. Only today it wasn’t singing—just mocking me. Two blocked swings where the pick bounced off like it’d hit steel, not stone. Felt like the mountain itself was laughing. But then, on the third try, the head bit deep, and that familiar clink rang out—clean, bright—followed by the crumbling of ore breaking free. I nearly dropped to my knees right then. Not from exhaustion, but from that old, stupid hope.
I carried nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one a dull weight pressing into my shoulders, but it was the one I held in my hand that mattered. Sat by the mine forge later, feeding the flames with brittle driftwood, I watched the fire lick at the raw ore. The heat on my face, the smell of coal and molten metal—it’s the only prayer I know. When the ingot glowed cherry-red, I pulled it out with tongs that’ve seen better years. One of the jaws snapped mid-shift. Damn thing just gave out. I stared at it, half-angry, half-amused. Fifty years of smithing in this town, and I’m still fighting my own tools. But I managed, propped it with a scrap of iron, reshaped the bar slow and careful. Hammer strikes ringing like bells in the dusk.
Sold it all to Haldor at the blacksmith stall near the stables—man’s bought my work since I first came here with soot on my face and fire in my eyes. He didn’t haggle much this time. Nodded, counted out 22 gold, and said, “Good weight.” That’s all I needed. Sitting here now in the tavern, ale bitter on my tongue, I feel the emptiness in my pack like a relief. But come dawn? I’ll be back in that tunnel. The mountain’s still singing. Just waiting for the right swing.
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