The pick hit stone again—clang, dull and flat—and for a heartbeat I thought the vein had played out. That’s how it feels when the ore’s gone stubborn, like the mountain’s holding its breath. I’d been working the seam near Minoc’s old mining hollow, just east of the mine forge where the rock’s softest, and my arms were singing from eight solid strikes in under an hour. Dust hung in the air, golden in the late sun, and my gloves were splitting at the knuckles. But then the ninth swing bit deep, and a chunk of iron ore broke free with a satisfying crack, tumbling into the dirt like a tooth knocked loose from the earth’s jaw.
I didn’t stop to rest. Too much to do. I’d already smelted four ingots back at the forge earlier—watched them glow cherry-red in the crucible, heard the hiss as I poured them into molds. The smell of hot metal still clung to my apron, mixed with sweat and coal. Carrying them, plus the new ore, nearly filled my pack. Nearly fifty ingots in there now, pressing down like old regrets. I made five trips to the Minoc bank already today, slipping past the same guard who always nods but never speaks. Deposited two ingots this round—just to clear space—then hauled myself back, boots grinding on loose scree.
But it was that moment, kneeling to load the last ore chunk, when I felt it—the weight settling into my shoulders, the ache behind my eyes—not from exhaustion, but from knowing this rhythm never ends. Not really. You dig, you smelt, you carry, you repeat. And for what? Gold’s been gone from my pouch for days. But still, there’s pride in the heft of it, in knowing every ingot was pulled by my own hand from cold stone.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the lot to the blacksmith near the stables. He’ll haggle, but he’ll pay fair. And if I’ve got the strength left, I’ll trade half for steel tongs—the ones with the reinforced grip. These old ones won’t last another week.
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