I remember the first time I swung a pick down in the mines near Minoc—steel biting into stone, that sharp crack echoing like thunder in a tin can. Last night, though, the rock just laughed at me. I’d been down near the old tunnel past the mine forge, shoulders tight, knuckles split from grip and grit, hacking at the seam for near two hours. My legs burned like bellows stoked too long, and each swing felt heavier than the last. The pick rang hollow again and again, until finally—clink—a real strike. A spark flew, red-hot, stung my cheek. I didn’t flinch. Pried loose a jagged lump of iron ore, cold and rough as a beggar’s hands, and dropped it in my sack. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack now, all wrestled from stone, each one a small victory carved between pain and pride.
I limped back toward Minoc as the sun bled out behind the hills, the weight pulling at my hips, boots scuffing dust in the road. Tried to offload a stack to the Provisioner’s boy near the south gate—he’s usually good for a few coins, even when the market’s thin. But the fool wouldn’t even let me open my pack. “Can’t trade now,” he said, eyes blank, like a puppet with cut strings. I wanted to shout, maybe throw an ingot at his feet just to hear it clatter, but what’s the point? The town’s gone stiff with guards and guild nonsense. Even begging the tinker near the Counselor’s Hall got me nothing—four times I asked, four times he turned me away like I was plague-ridden.
Sat on the steps behind the blacksmith’s, where the anvil’s shadow stretches long and cool. Felt the warmth still rising from the forge stones, smelled the ghost of coal and molten steel. My tongs snapped yesterday—cheap things, brittle at the joint—but I still reached for them out of habit, fingers closing on air. That’s the thing no one tells you: it’s not just the body that wears down. It’s the hope. The quiet voice that says one more trip, one more bar.
But I’ll be back at first light. The mine doesn’t care if I’m tired. And neither does my stomach.
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