Another dusk settles over Minoc, and I’m nursing a tankard at the corner table, still tasting coal smoke in the back of my throat. The mine forge near the stonecutter’s path—same one with the warped anvil and the soot-blackened wall—was my second home today. I’d been swinging that pickaxe since dawn, my arms screaming by midday, but I kept at it. There’s a rhythm to it, you know? When the pick bites just right into the stone seam, there’s a clean crack, like splitting kindling, and the ore spills out warm and glittering. Twenty-nine good strikes today. Felt each one in my shoulder. But then, nine times—nine damn times—the pick glanced off like the mountain itself was laughing at me. One time, I even swung so hard I lost my footing. Nearly took out my knee on the jagged floor.
But it wasn’t the mining that stuck with me. It was the smelt. I’d gathered the crushed ore, carried it to the forge—this little squat oven tucked between two boulders where the wind always finds a way in. I fed the flames, stoked it with that dry Minoc brush, and waited. My tongs snapped on the third use—cheap things, bought off a peddler near the blacksmith shop. Had to fish the ingot out with a pair of pliers meant for horseshoes. Nearly burned my forearm on the lip. But when I finally pulled that first bloom of iron free, glowing like a dying star, I just stood there, letting the heat wash over my face. Five times I did it. Five ingots pulled from the fire, each one heavy with promise.
I’ve got nearly fifty ingots in my pack now, dragging me down like old sins. Sold a stack to Brenna at the smithy earlier—she gave me a nod and didn’t haggle, which counts for something in this trade. It’s not the gold that matters, not really. It’s the weight in my hands, the way the metal hums when it’s true. Tomorrow, I’m heading west of the mine, past the old cave where the ore runs darker. Heard whispers of something richer in the deep veins. Might need better tongs. Might need more than that. But for now, I’ll sleep deep, and dream of fire.
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