Minoc’s forge was still warm when I stumbled in last night, shoulders aching like I’d been wrestling bears instead of hauling iron. The air smelled of old coal and scorched stone, and the anvil—blessed, unyielding thing—stood there like it had all the answers. I set my pack down slow, felt the weight shift—nearly fifty ingots clinking like a drunkard’s coins. Took me all morning in that cursed mine west of the city, chipping at the vein like it owed me coin. And maybe it did. Every swing of the pickaxe rang up my arms, sharp at first, then dull, then just there, like breathing. I lost count after thirty strikes on the same stubborn seam. Then—crack—the stone split, and the iron tumbled free in a single fat lump. Felt like the mountain had coughed up a tooth.
I remember the way the torchlight caught the raw ore, dull red in the flicker, like it was still angry at being pulled from the dark. I knelt there, hand on the rock, breathing in that cold, wet smell of deep earth. My gloves were torn, thumb poking through, and the chill seeped into my skin. For a moment, I didn’t move. Just listened—to the drip of water somewhere behind me, to the creak of timber supports, to the silence that only deep tunnels know. It wasn’t peace. It was something older. Like the mine was watching. I’d swear it.
Back at the forge, I piled the ingots near the bellows, too tired to work them. Just sat on the stool, staring at the cold fire. I thought about lighting it—thought about shaping something real, something strong. A sword, maybe. Or a simple hinge for that widow’s gate in Trinsic. But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not from exhaustion. From that moment in the dark, when the pick struck true and the rock broke open like fate. It wasn’t luck. It was knowing where to hit. Knowing the rhythm. That’s what the old blacksmith in Moonglow used to say: It ain’t strength, boy. It’s listening.
Tomorrow, I go back. The vein’s not done. And neither am I.
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